


Looking for a Miracle

by Kitmistry



Series: Kitmistry's Holiday Fics [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Sharing a Bed, Snowed In, Strangers to Lovers, Writer Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22046806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitmistry/pseuds/Kitmistry
Summary: Dean Winchester is used to family dinners and his brother’s dog running around his house on Christmas, but when everyone seems to have better plans for this year, he takes the chance to house sit for one of his friend’s clients. If he has to be alone for Christmas, then he’d rather be in a grand house with a fireplace than his own small, bachelor apartment. His plans go downhill when the grumpy but gorgeous owner of the house decides not to leave after all.Bestselling crime writer Castiel Novak doesn’t want anything to do with Christmas. Even the mere mention of the word is enough to make him break out in hives. Isolated in his house since the death of his wife, he plans to spend another Christ—the Holiday That Shall Not Be Named alone with the ghosts haunting him and the book he can’t seem to write. But when the brash and overconfident housekeeper—who shouldn’t have even shown up on his doorstep—is snowed in at his house by the storm of the century he might have to make a few compromises.Will a Christmas miracle be enough to give both men what they need?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Daphne Allen/Castiel (past)
Series: Kitmistry's Holiday Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2075259
Comments: 77
Kudos: 309
Collections: Destiel Harlequin Holiday Cheesefest Challenge 2019





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [ Destiel Harlequin Cheesefest Challenge. ](https://destielharlequinchallenge.tumblr.com/)
> 
> A huge shoutout to [ Hectatess ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hectatess/pseuds/Hectatess) and [ ms.josephine ](https://ms-josephine.tumblr.com/) for being my betas. This fic wouldn't be completed without them. And of course, a big thank you to the mods for running this challenge and picking out such fun summaries for us to pick from. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this little Christmas fic.

**From: c.j.novak@gmail.com** **  
** **To: bradburych@moondoor.pub.com** **  
** **[SENT, RECEIVED]**

Charlie,

I’m going to need an extension on that deadline. I’ll be spending a couple of weeks in NY with Gabriel in December, and I don’t think I’ll be able to write while I’m there. Please arrange for a house sitter for me while I’m away. Weather reports say there’s a major storm heading this way and I want someone here to make sure nothing gets damaged.

Thank you,   
Castiel J. Novak

**From: bradburych@moondoor.pub.com** **  
** **To: c.j.novak@gmail.com** **  
** **[SENT, RECEIVED]**

I’m your editor, not your assistant. The only reason I found a house sitter for you is because I’m happy you’ve finally decided to get out of your house, even if it’s only to visit your brother. (Seriously, dude, three years is enough time. And this is your friend talking, not your editor)

You’re lucky I have someone in mind that will be perfect for the job. I’ll make sure to confirm with you before giving him my extra pair of keys.

I’d love to give you that extension on the deadline, but this time my hands are tied. I haven’t even seen an outline of your new book, let alone a first draft in well over a year. You know I’m trying to give you space but orders come from above, and they’re not happy. You have until December 31st to send in something.

**From: c.j.novak@gmail.com** **  
** **To: bradburych@moondoor.pub.com** **  
** **[SENT, RECEIVED]**

Charlie,

Thank you for your trouble. I’ve attached my flight info. Please make sure the house sitter comes after I’ve arrived at the airport and leaves before I’m back.

December 31st is a month away. I can’t write a book in a month. Please pass my apologies to your boss, but it’s not possible. Respectfully, I will turn in the first draft when it’s ready.

Thank you,   
Castiel J. Novak

**From: bradburych@moondoor.pub.com** **  
** **To: c.j.novak@gmail.com** **  
** **[SENT, RECEIVED]**

No can do, Cas. 

Mr. Baum demands to see a first draft. Now please do me a favour and send me something other than your grocery list. (They’ll be delivered tomorrow btw).

I’ve passed your flight schedule as well as your keys to Dean with all your instructions. Operation  _ Get Cas out of the House _ is a go.

**From: c.j.novak@gmail.com** **  
** **To: bradburych@moondoor.pub.com** **  
** **[DRAFT, FORGOTTEN, UNSENT]**

Charlie,

I’ve cancelled my plans with Gabriel to stay here and focus on my book. I won’t be needing that house sitter after all. 

Thank you,   
Castiel J. Novak


	2. It's a Misunderstanding

The sky is a weird mix of white and grey that hides the sun and makes it hard to tell what time it is. It’s freezing outside, the temperature dropping below what Dean’s used to for this time of the year in Kansas. However, with the heater turned on all the way inside Baby, the cold is not so much his problem as is the increasingly thicker snow falling outside. 

Now, Dean is a romantic at heart, and there’s nothing more perfect in preparation for Christmas than fluffy, fresh snow. Except when it arrives a whole two weeks before Christmas. And when it makes visibility so poor that he can’t drive. Shit, with every passing minute it’s like another yard of road ahead of him is swallowed by the endless flakes. 

Tightening his hold on the wheel, Dean thanks whoever is listening that at least he’s only a couple of minutes away from his destination: The large house at the edge of the city that his friend Charlie convinced him to house sit during the holidays. Actually, not so much convinced him as threw the idea at him and he jumped at it like a drowning man grabbing the life vest that will keep him afloat.

No! He shouldn’t be thinking like that. He’s excited! He’ll have a whole, gigantic house to himself to celebrate Christmas in. It has a fireplace for fuck’s sake! And enough room to put up a tree. Unlike the tiny apartment above Bobby’s garage he’s currently living in. And the extra money won’t be bad. Work has been slow in the garage this month, since people usually choose to spend their money on gifts and festive dinners over fixing their cars.

That’s right. He’s going to have the time of his life. And he’ll have an amazing view of a snow-covered garden while he enjoys his beer by the fire. What else could he ask for?

The house is nothing more than a shadow at first, but as Dean drives up the narrow road that leads to it, he can see more and more details. Like the attached garage and the large windows. The covered patio that looks perfect for someone to sit and gaze outside.  He parks on the road, because Charlie only gave him keys to the front door, but there’s bound to be a way to open the garage doors from the inside. He’d hate to leave his Baby outside in this weather. 

Grabbing his duffel bag and the groceries he’s bought to get him through the first week, he climbs up the stairs, fishes around his pocket for the key, and unlocks the door. The warm air is a sweet relief against his frozen cheeks. He didn’t think it was possible, but just a few seconds out in the swirling snow was enough to make him shiver from the cold.  He leaves his stuff on the floor for a second. Boots and jacket are better left here, where they won’t carry snow inside, and he also hangs his scarf from one of the hooks by the door. Feeling much lighter already, he grabs the groceries, wondering where the kitchen might be. 

Just as he’s about to take the first step towards the door to his right, a deep voice makes him snap around.

“Who are you? What are you doing in here?”

Dean spins around. Halfway down the staircase is a dark haired man that stands tall and imposing. The intensity of the glare he’s turning on Dean is enough to make his stomach twist in a knot.

“Um, Dean Winchester. I’m the house sitter,” Dean says, lamely. 

The man frowns, then hurries down the stairs. “House sitter? I told Charlie I wouldn’t be needing one after all. Didn’t she tell you?”

In a blur of movement, the man is down the stairs and right in front of Dean. Like  _ really  _ in front of him, leaning into his personal space and all as he squints his… damn, those are some pretty baby blues. 

“Well, didn’t she tell you?” the man demands, his gravelly tone doing all kinds of stuff to Dean’s insides. 

Feeling a little unnerved, not only because the man is gorgeous, but also because he’s not happy at all to see Dean here, Dean changes his weight from one foot to the other. It does little to put distance between him and the good-looking stranger. “Are you Cas?” 

“Yes, I’m Castiel Novak. And you must be Charlie’s friend, who I specifically told her shouldn’t come here after all.”

“Charlie didn’t say anything,” Dean tries. It’s hard to concentrate when someone is staring him down like that. Which is weird, considering how Dean is the taller of the two.

“I sent her the email two weeks ago,” Cas groans. The next second he’s turning around and heading deeper into the house. 

Not sure if he’s supposed to follow or not, Dean stays put. It turns out to be the correct choice when a couple of minutes later Cas reappears with his laptop in hand. 

“Let me show you. I specifically told her that I cancelled my plans and I wouldn’t—” His words are cut off abruptly. Eyes wide, he clicks around a few times. “Shit. I forgot to send her the email.” When he looks up at Dean again, all the anger is gone from his face. All that’s left is apprehension and a faint blush. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. You drove all the way out here in the snow because of my mistake.”

“Hey, it’s no problem, man. This is just a misunderstanding. I get it.” He gives him a crooked smile, hoping to lighten the atmosphere a bit. Cas’s frustration seems to have done a 180 and is completely directed at himself now. 

“I’ll compensate you for your trouble,” Cas insists. “Do you have a bank account? Or do you prefer cash?”

“Woah, hey there, buddy. There’s no need for that. I don’t want you to pay me when I haven’t done a thing to deserve that money.” Dean takes a step back, tightening his hold on his grocery bag because the instinct to drop it and raise his hands in surrender is too strong. It’s hard not to when the whole intensity of Cas’ attention is directed at him. “I’ll just grab my stuff and go.”

“But please—”

“It’s fine, really. I live only a short drive from here. It’s not like I’m stuck in a strange place with nowhere to stay.”

Reluctantly, Cas nods. He hovers awkwardly by the stairs, laptop still in his hands. 

“So… I guess, nice to meet you?” Dean winces internally. That was real smooth. Why does his tongue get all numb and tied when he deals with handsome men? Why can’t he be his cool, confident self that charms women with a smart one-liner and a wink?

“It was nice to meet you, too,” Cas allows, though there’s some hesitation there. He stands there while Dean goes through the tiresome process of cold-proofing himself again.

He leaves the keys on the table by the door, catching Castiel’s eye to make sure he saw. With a tight smile and a final nod in goodbye, he grabs his stuff and steps out again. 

The vortex of snowflakes engulfs him once more, making his eyes sting, but Dean braves the short walk back to his car. He doesn’t bother with the trunk, shoving everything in the passenger seat instead. He takes his own seat behind the wheel, chastising himself for forgetting his gloves when he finds it already cold to the touch. Seriously, he was in that house for less than a couple of minutes, how can all of the heat have been sucked right out of the car?

He turns the key in the ignition.

The engine roars. Then dies.

“Oh, come on.”

He tries again.

Nothing.

“Don’t do this to me, Baby,” Dean pleads, a sense of foreboding settling heavy over him. He tries again and again, but nothing seems to work. Finally, Dean has to admit that his Baby has left him stranded.  Dropping his head, Dean takes a deep breath. He can’t pop open her hood to check the problem in this much snow, and even if he could, he doesn’t have any tools with him to fix whatever is wrong with her. He has no other choice.

Castiel’s mouth drops open in surprise when he opens the door to find Dean again. It opens and closes a couple of times without producing a sound. Then, finally: “You, again.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Dean shrugs. “Yeah, sorry to bother you, but it seems like my car died on me. Do you think you could call a tow truck for me?”

“I… Yeah, of course. Please, come in.” Castiel steps to the side only after a small hesitation, but he holds the door open wide for Dean to step back in. “The kitchen is right this way. Please make yourself comfortable, and I’ll call someone.”

“Thank you, man,” Dean says, removing his outer layer of clothes for the second time. He looks at his boots without knowing what to do, but a glance at Cas reveals he’s barefooted. He decides following his host’s lead is the way to go. 

The kitchen is big and airy, with white cabinets and a stove that could easily bake three of Dean’s pies in one go. The tiles on the walls are a shiny white, too, and the wooden open shelving gives a modern spin to the traditional interior of the rest of the house. He perches on a stool by the kitchen island, when Castiel appears again.

“They said they’ll be here in half an hour. Can I offer you something while you wait? I don’t think I have anything to eat, but I do have coffee.”

“Coffee would be nice.”

Cabinets open and close, and a couple of boxes are gathered on the counter by the coffee maker. Castiel squints inside a round tin box before looking up at Dean apologetically. “I only have flavoured coffee. It’s vanilla hazelnut.”

Dean blinks. He’s never heard of anyone drinking flavoured coffee, except for a couple of chicks when he’s waiting in line at starbucks. But coffee is coffee. “I can do vanilla hazelnut.”

“I’ll get right to it then.”

It takes ten minutes for the coffee to brew, which Dean and Cas spend in awkward silence. Damn him if it doesn’t smell amazing after a while, though. He sniffs the air discreetly, taking in the rich scent of coffee with the sweet undertones of the hazelnut. Maybe Cas and those chicks are onto something after all.

The coffee is too hot to drink when Cas pours a generous amount into his cup, but it’s perfect for keeping his palms warm. Not that it’s cold inside the house, but it makes him feel cozy. And more comfortable.

He eyes Cas as he stretches up to grab a jar of sugar from one of the top shelves. His dark blue sweater, which suits his eyes immensely, rides up to reveal a strip of tanned skin right above the waist of his pants. Dean’s eyes are immediately glued to that spot. He’s not a perv, but he can’t help himself. The guy looks like he just walked out of one of his wet dreams. With wide shoulders, and a sharp jawline, plush lips that just beg Dean to bite them every time Cas licks them nervously, and big hands that Dean would beg to have on him. Touching. Caressing. Pressing.

He snaps his eyes back up just as Cas turns towards him, stirring his coffee to melt the sugar. It’s a shame the guy seems to be almost scared of him. It’s a shame he’s also wearing a very visible, very unmistakable wedding ring, too. 

At Dean’s age, it’s no wonder all the good ones are taken. Who waits for his late thirties to settle down? No one except Dean, that’s who.

He sighs, bringing the cup to his lips to take a sip. 

_ Oh.  _

Oh, this doesn’t taste bad at all. It’s quite good actually. Yeah, Dean can definitely do vanilla hazelnut.

“So,” Cas starts, leaning with his elbows on the counter across from Dean. “If you live around here, why did you take this job? The house sitting I mean.”

Dean shrugs. “Didn’t have anything better to do, so I figured if I was going to be stuck in Lawrence for Christmas I might as well do something useful with my free time.”

“House sitting is not you usual job?” Cas inquires, squinting at him. Which is not adorable. Not adorable at all. 

_ Focus, Winchester! The man is fucking married. _

“Ah, no. It was going to be a one time thing. I own a garage with my uncle, Bobby. We’re looking into expanding business to include classic car restoration, but that’s a few years in the future still. And you’re a writer, right? Anything I might have read?”

“I usually write crime thrillers,” Castiel says, rolling the cup between his palms. “My last book did well I think. It’s called  _ Murder on 5th Avenue.” _

Dean can’t help but gawk. “Wait, you’re James Novak? I thought you said your name was Cas.” And what does ‘did well’ mean?  _ Murder on 5th Avenue  _ is a bestseller! Shit, Dean is having coffee with a bestselling author. James Novak of all people. And Charlie never even thought to mention that she’s his editor! The short redhead has a lot of explaining to do when Dean gets back home and calls her. “Dude, you’re, like, famous.”

Castiel looks a little lost at Dean’s outburst. He quirks his head to the side in a very owlish and very uptight movement. “James is my middle name. I thought I’d use a pen name since I never much enjoyed attention. It just made things easier.”

“Oh, right, of course,” Dean agrees, laughing nervously. “By the way, huge fan, man. Not that I'm trying to, you know, make you feel uncomfortable or anything, but your books are awesome. No wonder they sell out as fast as they do. And I… I'm going to shut up now.” 

He totally made Cas feel uncomfortable there. Him and his giant blabbering mouth. Can he be any more of a joke? Probably not. He just wishes the tow truck appears soon to save him from his own ridiculous self. 

To his surprise, Cas tilts his head to the side and something at the corner of his mouth moves. It's not a smile, not exactly. More like a mirth. But there's definitely something positive there. “Thank you. It’s always nice to hear people enjoy my books.”

Taking a sip of his awesome coffee, and considering whether it'd be rude to ask for one more cup and maybe where Cas buys it from, Dean figures that since Cas doesn't seem too bothered with him, he's safe to continue. “Are you working on a new book? It's been almost three years since your last one. Not that I'm pushing or anything, but your fanbase is kind of anxious.”

Cas sighs.“My fanbase and Charlie both. I actually cancelled my plans to stay here and finish the book.” He scowls down at his coffee, like maybe the answer to his problems is at the bottom of his cup.

“It sucks, man, I know. I was supposed to spend the holidays with my family, but they all disappeared on me. When Charlie told me about the house sitting gig, I figured a change of scenery would be nice. And this place is totally better than my apartment.” 

“Where did all your family go?” Cas asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“Um, let’s see. My brother is flying off to Paris with his girlfriend in a couple of days, Charlie is meeting Gilda's parents and spending Christmas with them, Bobby and Ellen are visiting their daughter in Nebraska since she couldn't take enough days off to come back.” He ticks off the people he mentions with his fingers, ending with a grand gesture at himself. “And yours truly has to keep the garage running.”

“I'm sorry they all left you alone,” Cas says, and it's so sincere that Dean feels a small ping in his heart. 

He shrugs it off though. “Eh, what can you do. What about you? How are you celebrating?”

Cas’s expression immediately darkens. “I don't celebrate.” Curt. Short. Definitely not an invitation for more questions. Dean gets the hint and keeps his mouth shut.

They wait for the tow truck to arrive together in the kitchen, but the atmosphere is nothing like the warm and friendly one they'd created while they were talking. And even though the dude is cute even when glaring holes through his counter, Dean counts down the minutes until he can go.

When Cas glances at his watch for the fourth time in as many minutes, Dean speaks up. “How long have we been waiting?”

Cas looks at his watch again, wedding ring glinting under the overhead light. “An hour and a few minutes.” He looks up at Dean, his mouth a tight line. “Maybe I should call them again.”

“Oh, yeah. That's a good idea.”

Cas grabs the phone and dials. It takes a couple of minutes for the call to go through, and then he turns his back to Dean and starts relaying their problem to the person down the line again.

Dean's coffee is long gone by then, but he keeps his cup in his hands to have something to fidget with. The sky has turned dark outside, and he’d rather not have to drive through the snow if it’s too late. Hopefully, rescue is on the way.

“What do you mean it's not coming?”

Dean's eyes snap up to find Cas already looking back at him, panic written all over his face.

“I understand there's a blizzard, but this is an emergency. Yes… yes, I understand, but… alright. Alright. Thank you very much.” Cas drops the phone on the counter, pressing his fingers against his eyeballs. He takes a deep breath, before addressing Dean. “They are not coming. All the roads are closed because of the snow.”

“What?” Dean jumps up, rushing to the window. He can’t see anything outside. It's like there's a thick white curtain drawn over the glass, obscuring his view. He thinks he can make out a hint of black close to where he remembers parking his Baby. She’s almost completely buried under the snow. Heart dropping to his stomach, Dean realizes he's trapped here. 

He turns to look at Castiel and finds him looking equally hopeless.

Wonderful. He just got himself snowed in with a total stranger, and a stranger that he's already managed to offend with his questions. Can this get any worse?

“At least we still have electricity,” he says, trying to lighten the mood.

Castiel frowns.

_ Click. _

The room is plunged into darkness.


	3. Storm of the Century

There’s a lot of shuffling—and a lot of internal cursing on Dean’s part—before a drawer opens and closes, and a beam of light appears somewhere to his left. Then it’s turning towards him, blinding him.

“I have a flashlight,” Cas says, no more than a shadowy outline behind the source of light.

Raising his hands to cover his eyes, Dean says, “No shit, dude.”

The flashlight is turned towards the light bulb above their heads, and Cas’s face is cast in pale shadows. He examines it, glaring at it like he can make it work again with his willpower alone. Having personal experience with the man’s fierce gaze, Dean is almost surprised when it doesn’t work.

“I have a backup generator for such occasions,” Cas mumbles, more to himself than Dean. “I guess even that has abandoned me.”

“Where’s the generator? Maybe I can fix it,” Dean says, happy to find an excuse to put his hands to good use.

“In the backyard. Grab your coat and follow me,” Castiel says, turning to lead the way.

They make their way back to the front door to dress themselves in as many layers as an onion, then go back to the kitchen, where the back door is.

When Cas opens the door, the wind hits them with enough ferocity to almost push them back inside the house. Lifting an arm to protect his face, Castiel clears the way through the snow—already up to his knees—and takes Dean to a small hut tucked in the corner of the garden.  Dean’s teeth are already chattering by the time he’s close enough to brush the snow off the generator. It’s on an elevated frame, which at least protects it from the snow piling on the ground, but there’s nothing to stop the snow from piling on top of it.

They huddle close together, pushing and shoving elbows out of the way until they manage to find a way to squeeze close together so that Cas can keep the flashlight where Dean needs it, and Dean can bend to inspect the generator without his shadow being a gigantic pain in the ass that gets in the way.  He bites on one of the fingers of his glove, pulling it off, then pries the lid open. He squints at the tangled cables shoved in there, and a dark pit forms in his stomach. Despite his pessimism, he tries to move a few around, looking for the problem. When it gets so cold that he feels his fingers might fall right off his hand, and his nose is well on its way to getting frostbite, he has to admit defeat.

“Shit. It’s too dark to take a good look. Maybe I could get it to work, but I’ll have to look at it again tomorrow morning.”

Cas’s face falls, mouth pressing into a thin line. He nods.

Back at the house, they shake the snow off their shoulders and shed their outer layers. They’re both shivering, and Dean is not sure whether or not he can trust his voice not to shake when he speaks.

“Here take this,” Cas says, shoving the flashlight in Dean’s hands. “The living room is that way, and there should be enough wood to light the fireplace. Matches are in the tin box on the mantel. I’m going to get blankets.” He eyes Dean’s soaked through jeans. “And I’ll get you a change of clothes as well.”

He pads across the hallway, a hand on the wall to guide him, and soon the darkness swallows him up. 

Without missing a second, Dean does as he was told. He has a fire going by the time Cas reappears in a fresh set of clothes and a fluffy robe that looks more expensive than anything in Dean’s closet. His arms are weighed down by a tower of blankets, which he drops on the couch with a slight  _ oof. _ He grabs a bundle from the top of the blankets, passing it over to Dean.

“Here you go. You can change while I make something to warm us up. The coffee maker won’t work without electricity but I have a portable gas stove that I can use to make hot chocolate.”

“Oh, thanks man, you’re an angel,” Dean says, accepting the clothes. They’re soft but thick, and there’s a wooly sweater on the top that is the ugliest thing Dean has ever seen. He can’t wait to pull it on.

Just a few minutes later, Dean is in dry, warm clothes and buried under a heavy blanket. The warm glow of the fire is like a lighthouse in the middle of the storm. Or like Narnia’s light post, he muses, pulling the blanket tighter around him. The room is too big and the couch too far away from the fire, so Dean is sitting on the floor instead, waiting for Cas to come back.  He inspects his surroundings feeling like a child peeking over his neighbour’s tall fence. Cas made it clear he didn’t want him here, and yet here they are. Both stuck in this house until someone can come and pick Dean’s car up.

“Here you go.” Cas drops to sit next to Dean, handing a steaming cup of hot chocolate over. 

“Oh, thanks,” Dean says for what feels like the hundredth time this night. “That’s exactly what I needed after our brave but very stupid excursion outside.”

Castiel winces, pulling the second blanket over his shoulders. “I guess we have no choice but to wait for the storm to pass.”

“Yeah.” Dean looks down at his drink, licking his lips. “Listen, Cas, I know that my presence here isn’t exactly welcome, but—”

“Nonsense,” Cas cuts him off, waving a hand. “I think we’ve already established that you being here is my fault. And now it’s my fault that you’re trapped here as well. Did you try calling your family? To let them know you’re okay?”

“Oh, I didn’t think of that,” Dean admits. “None of the are in Kansas right now, so I didn’t have a reason to worry about them, but I guess they’ll be worried if they hear about the blizzard on the news, won’t they?”

Cas nods, bringing the cup to his lips and taking a sip.

Stretching to find his pants where he dropped them close to the fire while he was changing earlier, Dean fishes around his pocket for his cellphone. He dials Bobby first, because he figures Ellen is more likely to go all mother hen on him than Sam is. He presses the phone to his ear, but the line drops before it even connects.

Puzzled he checks the screen.

Aaaand, no signal.

This house sitting gig just keeps getting better and better.

Dean groans, throwing his phone to the side. “No signal.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Cas observes, though nowhere near as worried as Dean thought he’d feel.

“Don’t you want to make a call?” he asks, eyes falling back to Cas’ wedding ring. “I mean, aren’t you worried about your wife?”

Cas freezes. His shoulders are pulled tight under the blanket, and his grip on the cup has turned white-knuckled. “My wife,” he repeats, voice cold and distant. He swallows, a visible shiver running through him. “She passed away,” he says finally, eyes closed.

Dean takes a sharp breath, stomach dropping to his feet. “Oh, shit,” he says, before his mind catches up to his mouth. “I mean, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, I didn’t know, or else I wouldn’t…” he trails off. 

Nodding, Cas places the half-empty mug on the floor. “It’s okay,” he says, though his tone indicates that it’s anything but. “Excuse me. I think I’ll turn in early tonight.”

“Oh, I—”

“I’ve brought you a pillow with the blankets. Only the master bedroom has a fireplace, but the couch is very comfortable. I’m sure you’ll find something in the kitchen to warm up on the gas stove if you get hungry.”

“Cas, I didn’t—“ Dean tries again, but the words don’t come to him. He’s messed up, big time, and he’s sure that he hurt Castiel without meaning to. It’s just that he doesn’t know how to fix it.

“It’s okay,” Castiel says, dragging the blanket behind him on his way out of the room. When he’s almost at the door, he stops and turns around. “I’ll try writing tomorrow, so please don’t disturb me. If you think you can fix the generator I have tools. Either in the garage or in the attic. I’m not sure where.”

“Okay,” Dean breathes out, heart clenching.

Cas’s face is grim, with dark circles under his eyes that become more prominent from the dancing shadows of the fire on his skin. He looks broken with the way he hunches in on himself, like if maybe he could curl over more it would stop hurting. 

“Good night, Dean.” And with that Castiel walks away.

Dean’s hands are trembling, even though he’s no longer cold. He shuffles closer to the fire. It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

He wakes up sore all over and shivering. The fire went out while he was sleeping and the house is freezing cold again. He ended up sleeping on the floor, since the couch was too far away from the fireplace, but he was cold most of the night anyway. Stretching, he decides that he’d better start a new fire before doing anything else. Then maybe he can find something for breakfast.

He feels a little bad eating Cas’s stuff, though. He’s already taking advantage of his hospitality. 

But wait...

Dean brought groceries of his own, didn’t he? He just has to dig through the snow to get them out of Baby.

Dressed in his normal clothes and armed with a shovel he finds by the garage door, Dean starts operation _ Free Baby _ . To his dismay, it’s still snowing outside. The ferocity of the snow didn’t subside at all during the night, but at least he manages to uncover the passenger door about fifteen minutes later. He grabs his stuff and retreats back to the house, sending Baby a quick apology. He’ll have to let her brave the storm on her own this time, no matter how much everything inside him protests.

His feet have gone almost numb, but he figures it’s better to go take a look at the generator now rather than later so he can change once and for all and then spend the rest of his day warming himself in front of the fireplace. It’s not like he has anything better to do. Cas will probably not be coming out of his room any time soon. 

His heart sinks a little at the thought of the dark-haired author. No wonder he’s a little grumpy and somber. Losing his wife must have hurt like hell, and here is Dean, strolling in like the giant asshole he is, picking at old wounds.

Determined to do something to be useful around here, Dean wraps his scarf tighter around his neck and heads for the generator. The sun’s light can’t penetrate the thick clouds of the storm, but even the hazy gray glow of the snow is far better than the single flashlight he had last night. It looks simple enough to fix, if only he finds the tools Cas told him about.  He starts from the garage, where he does find tools, but not the ones he was looking for. In the furthest wall from the door that leads back to the house, hanging from the wall is an amateur carpenter’s wet dream; a table saw and a jigsaw, drills, clamps, hammers, chisels, and sanders. 

Okay, so scrap that ‘amateur’ part. 

But no tools that Dean needs, no matter how much he digs around. Sighing, he removes everything he’s wearing in the mud room, the clothes wet and sticky against his numb skin by now, and thanks every God that might be listening he left a change of clothes in there. Thick socks and heavy sweater on, he climbs up the grand stairs.

The second floor of the house is darker than the first. The grand windows that mimic the ones in the living room downstairs are hidden by heavy curtains here. The atmosphere is heavy with dust and neglect. Ignoring the chill going down his spine, Dean climbs higher. 

The attic door is unlocked. There’s a window across from where Dean stands, big enough to take up almost the entire triangular wall. Dust particles dance under the dim light coming through it. Dean walks among the bare beams, eyeing the boxes stacked against the slanted walls. Some of them have water stains on them, some have big blocky letters describing their contents, and some are just sitting there.  He passes by one called  _ Christmas Decorations _ and one more with the half-blurred inscription of  _ Cas’s Highschool  _ something _.  _ None says tools on it. Dean starts digging. He goes through half the unlabeled boxes, finds old toys and books and luggage bags overflowing with clothes too colorful to be from this decade. Finally, under a rusty and bent bird cage, he finds a toolbox.

_ Bingo! _

* * *

Getting another set of clothes wet is worth it when he hears the generator roar to life. Checking over his shoulder, he sees a few lights turning on in the house. He exhales in relief. At least they are not in danger of freezing to death anymore.

He’s still shedding his clothes when Cas appears, hair a mess and wearing at least two sweaters that Dean can see.

“Dean, did you—Oh.” Cas stops mid step at the door, eyes wide. 

Dean freezes like a deer caught in the headlights, acutely aware of being completely naked except for a pair of very short (and very wet) boxer briefs. He still has one leg tangled in his jeans and is currently in the process of removing his sock from the other.

Cas blinks, eyes travelling from Dean’s toes up to his neck and back down, agonizingly slow, leaving a fiery path on their way. 

Dean squirms under the attention and that seems to break Castiel out of his trance. He spins around, covering his face, even though there’s no covering his bright red ears. It’s all kinds of adorable, except Dean himself feels flushed all over.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t… I should have knocked,” Cas mumbles. 

Dean swallows past his dry throat. “Hey, it’s your house. Don’t sweat it.”

Shoulders trembling, Cas takes a deep breath. “I saw the electricity was back on, and I was wondering if you fixed the generator or if the power outage ended.”

“No, sorry. Power’s still out, but the good news is your generator works again,” Dean says, throwing as many layers of clothes on as fast as he can. “Bad news is we’ll have to be very frugal with how much electricity we use because my work is more like a patch over a bleeding wound than a stitch.”

Cas dares to check over his shoulder, and his posture relaxes once he realizes Dean’s decent again. “So we can’t keep it running all day?”

“Ideally, no,” Dean says, shaking his head. “I’d recommend we turn it off at night.”

“But that’s when it’s coldest,” Cas protests.

“It’s also when both of us are sleeping, so we don’t really need electricity.”

“At least we’ll have an oven to cook, I suppose,” Cas says, tilting his head to the side. “And I can use my laptop to write again. My hand will thank me.” He looks down at his right hand, rolling the wrist experimentally. “And so will Charlie.”

Something like a lightbulb goes up in Dean’s mind. “Hey, since you’re so close to your deadline, why don’t you go back to your writing and leave the cooking to me?”

Cas looks up, frowning. “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

That sounds all kinds of wrong, but Dean ignores the reflex response that is the first thing to come to mind— _ Sweetheart, you can take advantage of me anytime— _ because he knows that’s not what Cas means. “Dude, it’s not like I have anything else to do around here. Phone is still not connecting, I’m guessing we don’t have wifi, and we definitely don’t have TV.”

Cas shifts his weight uncomfortably, looking like he’s weighing Dean’s words in his mind. “Alright,” he relents at last. “If you insist. I’ll bring my laptop to work in my room, so we don’t have to use the second floor at all.”

“You do that,” Dean agrees. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to take a hot shower because my toes are frozen solid.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll get you towels.” __

* * *

Dean emerges from his shower feeling like a wrinkly raisin, but the hot water has managed to restore some warmth back to his body. He is a new man. Still stuck in a foreign house with a weird, dorky little guy, but at least now there’s light at the end of the tunnel. And soon enough there’ll be warm food as well.  He goes through his groceries and everything Cas has in his fridge and makes a battle plan. They don’t know how long they’ll be stuck in there for, but the freezer is well stocked, and he finds a cabinet filled with canned food. No freezing to death and not starving to death either. This must be Dean’s lucky day.

He figures starting with the things that’ll go bad first is the best option, so he makes a soup. It’s exactly what they need after freezing their asses off all night and leftovers can be frozen to save for another day. Dean mentally pats himself on the shoulder. He’s quite proud of his organization skills. 

It’s still too early to have dinner, and Cas is still holed up in his room writing, so Dean takes the opportunity to explore a little. He heads upstairs first, since he’s never seen anything there, but all he finds are two empty bedrooms, a dusty bathroom and Cas’s office. Heading downstairs, he looks around him. There’s not much he hasn’t seen. There’s the small bathroom and closet by the entry, and the hallway that leads to the kitchen and the mudroom adjacent to the garage. Of course there’s the living room, where Dean has spent most of his time already, and right next to it is Cas’s bedroom. There’s only one door left unopened, the one right between the downstairs bathroom and Cas’s room. 

Hopefully Cas is not hiding any dead bodies in there. Though, when he thinks about it again, if he didn’t find any skeletons in the unused rooms on the second floor, what are the odds he’s going to find them in a room so close to the entrance?

He turns the knob and enters, his breath catching immediately.

Most of the room is taken up by a grand piano, sleek and black, almost like his Impala. He takes a step closer, marveling at the smooth wood and the intricately carved book stand. With a gentle hand he caresses its side, following its gentle curve. It looks recently refinished, the polish still shining despite the dust gathering on top of it. 

A well loved piano for sure.

“There you are.”

Dean flinches back, like a kid caught stealing candy. 

“Hey, Cas. Sorry, didn’t mean to go snooping around your things.”

There’s a tightness to the set of Cas’ shoulders, a hesitance to the way he hovers just outside the door, hands clasped tight in front of him. 

Licking his lips, Dean looks at the piano again. He asks the first thing that comes to his mind. “Is it custom made?”

Cas’s eyes widen, his lips parting in a surprised inhale of breath. “It is. You can tell?”

“I have an eye for handmade things. Wood carving used to be a hobby of mine. And I saw the tools in your garage,” Dean confesses, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Quite the set up you have out there.”

“It used to belong to my father,” Cas says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looks like a bird, nervous to take the step that will take him outside his cage. Or maybe inside it. “My family owned a successful business of custom made furniture. It did quite well in my grandfather’s and my dad’s time, when people were looking for heavy objects and quality materials. These days my brother has moved the business to New York, where there’s more of a market for… intricate pieces.”

He actually uses air quotes while saying the last two words. It’s strangely endearing. It makes Dean want to tease him just to watch Cas’s reaction. Will he huff and frown or will he blush a pretty shade of pink? Both options are equally appealing and equally dangerous.

“So you became the author and got left with the grand house and the piano, huh?” he asks, joking.

“Kind of,” Castiel says, tilting his head to the side in consideration. He swallows, eyes dropping to his shoes. “The piano was a wedding gift.”

“Oh.”

“Daphne was a middle school teacher, but piano was her great passion,” Cas says, eyes glazing over. One of his hands darts out to grab the door frame, like he needs it for support. A beat. Then he looks up and straight at Dean. “Do you play?”

“Who, me? Nah. I’ve learned a couple of songs on an old guitar my dad had lying around. I wasn’t exactly a rock star, but it made me quite popular with the ladies back in high school. And the boys.”

He bites down on his lips, wishing he’d bit his tongue instead. Why did he have to say that? The dude is telling him about his  _ dead _ wife and Dean is sharing a stupid story and making a very awkward pass at him. If the earth could swallow him up right here and now, that would be great.

Cas’s eyes soften despite Dean’s internal freakout, trailing their way down Dean’s body. “I imagine you were,” he says, making Dean’s insides melt in all the right ways.

Feeling a blush crawling its way up his neck, Dean grasps at anything he can think of to get the attention away from him. “Do  _ you _ play?”

Castiel startles. “I do,” he says. He eyes the door threshold like it’s a gigantic pit with sharp spikes in its bottom, but then he’s stepping over, socked feet silent against the wood. “Just a few simple songs.”

He runs his fingers over the keys, like he’s trying to remember the correct position. Then he plays the first note. It echoes in the silence around them before it fades away. 

And Castiel begins to play. With his right hand only, pressing the notes unsurely, clumsily. Like he’s not sure he remembers how. It’s a familiar tune, one Dean is sure he’s heard innumerable times already but can’t place.  It’s short, and maybe a little awkward, but Castiel concentrates at the piano keys with such intensity it’s hard to look away. He ends the song hitting the last note softer than the others, so it’s barely audible.

“ _ Für Elise _ ,” he says, giving Dean a small smile, that weird upturn of his lips that looks closer to melancholy than happiness. He walks to the bookcase by the window and picks up a picture lying face down from one of the shelves.  His eyes are watery by the time he’s by Dean’s side, holding the picture out. “This is Daphne.”

A pretty brunette smiles up at him, big, expressive eyes crinkled with amusement. She’s sitting at the piano, a hand extended like she’s about to turn the page of the book on the stand. 

Dean swallows. “She was beautiful.”

“She was the most beautiful soul I ever met,” Cas agrees, caressing the frame. Then, with a heavy sigh, he puts the picture on the piano, face down. 

It’s not his place, so Dean doesn’t correct it. If Cas has trouble looking at pictures of his wife then it’s his right to hide them all. Which explains the suspicious lack of pictures around the house. 

Cas’s face is twisted with misery, and Dean’s heart goes out to him. This room probably holds a lot of happy memories, but they’re memories that bring a lot of pain with them, too.

He clears his throat, kicking an invisible pebble away. “So, dinner’s ready. If you’re hungry.”

Confused blue eyes turn to stare at him. “You made me dinner?”

“Well, it’s the least I could do,” Dean says. “And I said I would, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Cas agrees, following Dean towards the kitchen. “But still, you didn’t have to.”

Dean opens the cabinets and finds plates, passing them over to Cas to set them on the island along with two glasses. “I know I didn’t have to, but I wanted to. Just let me do something nice for you. You’ve been very generous while letting me stay here.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I’ve barely left my room since you got here,” Cas points out, watching as Dean comes around with the pot to pour them both a hearty serving of soup. 

Dean doesn’t want to come across as smug, but he feels a small satisfaction when Cas sniffs the air and licks his lips. His soup smells amazing, and it’s damn delicious, if he can say so himself. He brings over slices of bread, tearing his apart and throwing it in his soup to absorb the warm broth. 

“I get it, you have deadlines coming up. How’s the book coming along? You think you’ll make it?”

Cas drops to his seat with a heavy groan. “I don’t know. I have the crime all planned, all my clues in position, and even written the scenes where I foreshadow who the killer is.”

“Why do I feel there’s a but coming up?”

“ _ But _ it feels… empty. There’s something missing. It could just as well be an article you read on a paper with some juicy details thrown in there.”

Dean stirs his soup with his spoon, mulling that over. “So, what’s missing?”

“For starters, a solid B plot,” Cas says, counting with his fingers. “An internal goal for my protagonist other than ‘I’m a good detective’, a romantic interest that makes sense and doesn’t feel forced. Basically anything that isn’t cold, hard facts.”

“Wow, that sounds… hard,” Dean says. “But I’m sure you’ve got this. Your characters have always been so complex and multifaceted. You’re just facing a little writer’s block.”

“It’s a years-long writer’s block,” Cas grumbles. “Ever since Daphne… I can’t…” he trails off, mouth tightening. There’s a muscle vibrating under his jaw. 

In a moment of compassionate fueled courage, Dean bumps his shoulder against Cas’s giving him a lopsided grin. “I get it, Cas, I really do. But trust me, you’ll find your muse again.”

Bright blue eyes turn to him, an eyebrow raised.

“Your literary muse,” Dean rushes to add. “I mean, you’ll finish your book. You just have to brave through it.”

“The only way for me to finish this book on time is if my muse hits me on the head with a hammer today, and then I spend the next couple of weeks writing instead of sleeping.”

“Well, while you’ve got me, at least you don’t have to worry about cooking,” Dean says, making a show of bringing a spoonful to his mouth. 

Cas follows his example, shoulders losing some of their tension. “Thank you, Dean,” he says after his first sip. “It’s delicious.”

His eyes shine with genuine affection, and it becomes harder and harder to look away the more Cas refuses to break their eye contact. There’s a weird buzzing under Dean’s skin. It’s hard to swallow all of a sudden. 

Cas blinks, eyes falling back to his plate and the spell is broken.

Dazed, Dean turns away. “It’s nothing,” he says, mostly to fill the silence. “My dad worked long hours when Sammy and I were kids so cooking fell on my shoulders most of the time. I’m not half-bad, if I say so myself. If we had ingredients, I’d make you a baked lasagna that would blow your mind away.”

“I’d like to try that one day,” Cas says, even though they both know it’s a lie. After the blizzard is over they’re probably not seeing each other ever again. They’re not friends. They’re barely acquaintances. “What else do you know how to cook?”

“Oh, buddy, you shouldn’t have asked that,” Dean says, shifting his weight on the stool so he’s turned towards Castiel. “I have a whole menu planned with what we have here. It can last us up to a month if we freeze our leftovers.”

“That’s quite the ambitious plan,” Cas tells him, and it sounds close enough to teasing that Dean perks up.

Encouraged, he explains his whole cataloguing and planning process, telling Cas in between about his favourite recipes and anecdotes of how he’d almost burned down their house a couple of times while experimenting with his own recipes.  The hour flows by them, and he even manages to earn a laugh out of Castiel. A genuine one, with eyes creasing and nose wrinkling, and everything inside Dean glows with a golden warmth he’s never felt before. 

He wishes he could hold onto that feeling, that moment, here in the kitchen with Cas, but all too soon they’re both finished with eating, and since Cas insists he’s going to clean up by himself, Dean has nothing else to do but wander away.

With the kitchen door shut behind him, the house is enormous and dark once again. A shiver runs through Dean. He better start that fire in the living room again, unless he wants to freeze himself to death when the time to sleep comes and they turn off the electricity.


	4. Rooming with the Grinch

Dean is trembling. He’s shivering. No matter how close he scoots to the fireplace he can’t get warm. The room is too big and the temperature outside is too low for the fire to heat the place. When his phone informs him that’s it’s 5 AM and he hasn’t gotten more than a couple of hours of sleep, he decides to hell with it. He’s not sleeping so he might as well find something useful to do with himself. Preferably something that will warm him up in the process.

He walks around the house, blanket thrown over his shoulders and head like a makeshift cloak. He really hopes there are no ghosts haunting this place, though with the way he looks when he catches sight of his reflection in a mirror they might actually welcome him as one of their own.

What can he do?

He could try cleaning, he supposes, but that would require him waking up Cas to ask where he keeps all the cleaning supplies. And the house is pretty clean to begin with. There has to be something else he can do, something that Cas will appreciate, maybe something to cheer him up. A surprise for him when he wakes up.

Dean freezes mid step. 

He gazes at the dark, lonely house. From what Cas had told him, he wasn’t even planning to spend the holidays here before his editor cornered him about sending in a first draft. So maybe there is something he can do that will bring some warmth to his place. Something cheery and merry.

* * *

Dean is almost ready by the time some light breaks through the heavy snow curtain covering their windows. Dragging the boxes down from the attic had been the hardest part, but it’s all worth it to see his project coming to life before his eyes.  He bites his tongue, trying to keep his balance on top of the ladder he found in the garage, and leans a little forward. Just a bit more and he’ll be able to put the finishing touch in place. He’s so engrossed with what he’s doing that he completely misses the familiar hum of electrical devices coming back to life, or the soft steps approaching the living room.

“What the hell?” a voice snaps right underneath him, loud enough to make Dean jump.

He flinches back surprised. He misses his step, his foot landing on air instead of the ladder, and then he’s falling, tumbling, and crashing into something— _ someone— _ and they both smash to the floor in a mountain of limbs and pained grunts. 

Cas shoves Dean away, pushing off the floor and away. He steps back, back hitting the wall hard enough to make him wince and for a picture to fall from its nail, the glass breaking with a sharp noise that makes Dean look over, stunned.

“Dude, are you okay?” he asks, trying to gather himself from the floor. Everything hurts, especially his ass, but he doesn’t think anything is broken or sprained. Just his dignity.

Cas’s panicked eyes dart around the room, from the garlands lining the mantel, to the wreath above it, to the fake presents and stuffed deer set up in front of the windows, and finally they land on the Christmas tree, tall and heavy with balls and lights. The top is a little crooked, the star lying on the floor where it dropped after falling from Dean’s hands.  It’s a real Christmas Wonderland in there, and Cas look like he’s about to have a panic attack.

“What the hell did you do,” he stammers, pushing himself against the wall, hands fisted at his sides.

“I decorated a little,” Dean says, gesturing around them. “Looks nice, doesn’t it? Wait till I get the lights connected.”

“And who told you to do that?” Cas snaps, no snarls, finally breaking away from the wall only to stalk towards Dean, chest heaving. “Who the fuck told you to do all… all this?” He gestures around wildly, eyes bulging, teeth bared. 

Dean lifts two hands up in surrender, trying to calm the other man down. “Dude, relax. If you don’t like it, I’ll take it down.”

“Take it down,” Cas agrees, voice shaking. “Hide it all out of my sight, and make sure you keep out of my sight as well.”

“But I just—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Cas roars, hands covering his ears. He presses his eyes shut, like a child having a tantrum, and it’s hard for Dean not to think of him that way. “I don’t want to see it, I don’t want to think about it. Just shove it all back where it came from.”

He runs out of the room, his bedroom door slamming shut behind him.

Dean is left gawking after him.

What the fuck?

* * *

Returning everything back in their boxes is a far slower process than decorating, and certainly less cheery. And don’t get him started on all the glitter covering every surface in eyesight. He shoves another garland inside the box, pushing harder than it needs, until he feels something underneath it break. Well, he doesn’t care. It’s not his stuff anyway.  And if Cas is asshole enough not to see that Dean was only trying to do something nice, then he doesn’t deserve Dean caring about his stuff not breaking. He’ll just drag everything back up to the attic and hide them in a corner where they can be forgotten again, and then he’ll come back down to clean because he’s not going to give the Grinch the satisfaction of having another reason to get pissed off.

He gives the snowflakes dancing outside the window the stink eye. Still no phone signal, still no electricity, and still, the snow keeps piling outside. Everything would have been so much simpler if he’d just stayed at home for Christmas. Kicking back with a beer in his old couch doesn’t sound half bad right now, even if it’ll feel lonely without Sam’s dog, Bones, trying to hump his Christmas tree. At least he’d have a Christmas tree.

It’s lunch time by the time he’s dragged everything back where he found it, and Dean doesn’t even spare a glance to Cas’s door as he heads to the kitchen. He eats on his own, munching on a sandwich he whips up in less than two minutes, then grabs one of his beers and settles in front of the fireplace. He’s lucky he picked up a couple of novels from his house when he was packing. The first one keeps him entertained through the evening, until his stomach reminds him that he probably should start thinking about dinner.

He eyes the depleted wood pile by the fireplace, thinking that he’ll be lucky if they last him tonight, and that he should probably check with Cas to see if they have more wood stored somewhere, which reminds him that Cas is no longer speaking to him. It stings like a slap to the face. It shouldn’t, though. He doesn’t know Cas, not really. They are just co-existing.

His hands work on auto pilot. He gathers the ingredients, chopping onions and tomatoes, and slicing up the beef by hand since he can’t exactly take it to a butcher to pass it through a meat grinder. It’s not perfect, and the meatballs are too crude, but the sound of the sizzling pan is enough to calm his nerves.  Soon the whole house smells like home, like his small apartment used to smell when Sam had a rough day and Dean took out his chef’s hat and prepared comfort food to eat while binge watching Dr. Sexy together on the couch.  There’s no Dr. Sexy today, but at least there’s spaghetti and something that is close enough to meatballs to appease Dean’s nerves. All the rage is gone, replaced by exhaustion.

Once he’s done, he grabs his plate to eat by the fireplace. He’d rather be cozy than sit around in a strange kitchen waiting for the Grinch to reappear. 

Despite his stomach begging him to just gobble everything down, Dean goes slow. He loses himself in his thoughts, so much that he doesn’t realize Cas has come out of his room until he clears his throat.

Dean looks up.

There’s Cas, hovering by the door. Like always.

Dean looks away. He’s not exactly in the mood to talk.

There’s a sigh, and footsteps that grow louder as he comes closer. 

“I—” Cas swallows.

Dean has his eyes glued to his plate, something ugly twisting in his stomach, and he’s not sure why Cas is here, but he’s not in the mood to fight again. “I took everything down like you said.”

“Thank you.” Soft, unsure. Barely a whisper.

“We’re back to our unfortunate, miserable, snowed in reality.” 

“Thank you,” Cas says again, shuffling around awkwardly. “For the food I mean.”

At this, Dean finally glances up, to take in Cas’s disheveled hair, pale skin, tight shoulders. He looks… well, he looks like shit. 

Good. 

Because Dean feels like shit, and it’s always good to have company.

Cas rubs a hand over his eyes. “This is not what I’m trying to say. I’m not…”

“We’ve been through this already. Cooking is my job, so,” Dean says. Sure, he’s still pissed at Cas for acting like an asshole, but it’s hard to give him the cold shoulder when the guy looks so  _ tormented. _

Cas licks his lips, eyes dropping away in shame. “Can I… Can I join you? For dinner?”

Dean pauses. Rewinds everything in his mind. Finally, he shrugs.

Cas doesn’t wait another second. He brings his plate from the kitchen, dropping to sit on the floor besides Dean. There’s still an uncomfortable edge to the silence between them.  Cas chews, swallows. Glances up at Dean who is staring at him unabashedly, waiting. He glances at his plate again and takes another bite. “It tastes really good.”

“It’s alright.”

“Thank you.”

“You already said that,” Dean points out.

Cas nods jerkily. Then his eyes land on the fireplace. “We are almost out of wood. But there’s more in the garden shed. I can get some later tonight.”

Dean drops his head, snickering. This is awkward enough already, he doesn’t need to dance around the subject anymore. “I believe the words you’re looking for are ‘I’m sorry’.”

Castiel’s eyes widen in horror, something pink colouring his cheeks. Then: “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“For…” Dean trails off, not ready to let this go yet. 

“For everything. For yelling, for saying all those things, for being upset when you were only trying to do something nice.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard. Apology accepted.” Dean has every intention of going back to his food, but Cas is not finished apparently.

“I spent all these hours in my room, alternating between having a panic attack and feeling guilty. Chr—This time of the year is hard for me, but… I kind of like having you around to keep me company.” He has his eyes dropped to his plate, food going cold with every passing minute. “It’s weird. Except for my brother and Charlie, I never wanted anyone else in the house but you… You’re okay, I guess.”

“Um, thanks,” Dean says, a soft buzzing in his ears. “You’re cool, too, dude.”

Cas’ expression softens, some of the tension leaving his body. “I’m really not.” He looks up straight at Dean, eyes soft and sad. “I feel like I owe you an explanation.”

“Hey, it’s fine. Not everyone likes the Holid—this time of the year,” Dean catches himself quickly, noticing Cas fighting hard not to flinch at the word. New rule then, keep decorations out of sight, and Christmas out of mind. Okay, got it.

“It’s Daphne,” Cas says. “She was off from work for a few days, and she decided to hang the lights for the roof while I was out grocery shopping to surprise me. She slipped and… And by the time I came back it was too late already.”

Dean’s insides melt. “I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”

“It was,” Cas admits, voice hollow. “If it hadn’t been for Gabe, I wouldn’t… He flew all the way out here, took care of everything. Even took down all the decorations and stored them away. But he couldn’t stay forever and I couldn’t do this— _ anything _ —without Daphne.”

And so he didn’t. Dean looks around him again, at the empty rooms, the missing pictures, the house too far away from everyone else. On some level he understands. 

“You know, my mum died in a house fire when I was four,” Dean says, staring at the fireplace. “Dad got me and Sammy out, but she thought we were still in our beds and she was trapped in there. I didn’t speak for six months after that.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, and he means it. He gets it. He gets it in a way no one else could up until now. Sam was too young to understand and John was buried too deep in his own grief to notice Dean’s, and sure, Bobby tried his hardest, but he couldn’t understand. 

His mother went into that room for him. 

Daphne got up on that roof for Castiel.

Cas gets him. And Dean gets Cas. In a weird, twisted kind of way, they’re finally on even ground. 

“And what did you do? After.”

Dean shakes his head. “Well, I did my best. Helped Dad with Sammy, started part time work at my uncle’s garage when I was old enough to, cooked with aunt Ellen, chased away Jo’s boyfriends. The usual shit a family does.”

Cas tilts his head to the side, frowning. “And yet they left you.”

“They didn’t leave me,” Dean says. “They’re just a little busy this year.” And certainly Dean doesn’t blame them. Life is like that sometimes. 

“My brother is proposing to his girlfriend on New Years,” he adds out of the blue. “That’s why they’re in Paris now. And soon they’ll be starting a family of their own, and shit, maybe I’ll get to be an uncle someday, which is all kinds of awesome. I’d rather babysit a baby than Bones. But… you know, I just wish sometimes that I had someone, too. Someone to spend the holidays with instead of house sitting for a recluse. No offense.”

Cas chuckles, raising his fork in a mock toast, spaghetti swirled around it. “None taken. I know I’m not the best company.”

“You’re terrible company,” Dean adds, winking at him. “But we’ll work on that for however long we’re stuck here.”

Cas rolls his eyes, a whole body movement, and it’s so over the top Dean worries that he’ll drop his plate by mistake. By some miracle, he doesn’t. He sobers up all of a sudden, squinting at Dean. “Why are we sitting on the floor?”

Dean shrugs. “It’s cold, and the couch is too far away from the fireplace.”

“Heating is on right now,” Cas points out.

“Oh yeah, it is. Muscle memory I guess.”

“Muscle memory,” Cas repeats slowly, like he’s trying to dissect the words and find their true meaning. Then his mouth drops open. “Have you been sleeping on the floor?”

Dean can feel his cheeks burning. He wasn’t planning on telling Cas about his sleeping arrangements, it felt too ungrateful after the guy took him in, but he’s asking him directly now, and lying seems wrong. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s a little uncomfortable, but I can handle it.”

He tries to brush it off, but Cas’s brain is finally catching up, wheels turning, and realization dawns heavy on him. 

“Is that why you got up at an ungodly hour to decorate? You couldn’t sleep?”

“I…” He doesn’t want to admit it. He doesn’t want to lie. He shrugs, hoping that’s answer enough.

“That’s it, you’re not spending another night in this room,” Cas decides, glaring at the couch behind them like it has personally offended him. “It’s stupid, my bed is big enough anyway.”

It takes a moment for Dean to catch up, and then he thinks there’s a missed beat in his chest. And then he’s hot all over. “Dude, seriously, it’s okay.”

“I insist. There’s a fireplace in my room, and it’ll be warmer with two people anyway. It’ll be more comfortable, too.”

Dean can’t really argue back. Cas has a point. And there’s also a tiny, treacherous part of himself that rejoices at the idea of sharing a bed with Cas when it’s cold and they’ll have to huddle closer together, maybe even touch. Anything could happen.

He taps that idea down immediately. The guy is still mourning his wife, what the hell is wrong with him? Cas is just being nice and considerate, and Dean is just a perv. He promises to himself he won’t allow his thoughts to stray that way again, even as he nods to Castiel his agreement. 

“It’s settled then,” Cas says, and he chews on his next bite with renewed satisfaction.

Following his example, Dean goes back to eating, too. Somehow the silence isn’t as heavy now. It’s almost comfortable. Nice. Nice like joking and sharing stories while having dinner last night was. 

* * *

Dean steps into the room—no, he tip toes into the room. It’s… different from what he expected. Very impersonal. Just the basic furniture, a fireplace, and a desk pushed against a window. No pictures, no clothes on chairs, no nothing. If not for the thick robe hanging from a hook by the wardrobe, it’ll look like a room straight out of a catalogue. Pretty but essentially empty.  Every hint of Daphne is meticulously hidden away, he guesses, stepping further inside. 

Well, Cas told him to make himself comfortable while he’s doing the dishes, so there’s not much point in lingering. He drops his bag by the foot of the bed, trying to decide which side he should pick. Or maybe it’d be better to wait for Cas to come back and take whichever side is still free then. 

Something catches his eye. He walks up to one of the nightstands and finds a ring resting on top of it. He’s no expert, but it matches the one Cas is wearing. A simple gold band, almost delicate. A little dusty. 

The door creaks open behind him, and he spins around like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

“I wasn’t snooping,” he blurts out, because he’s smooth like that. 

“I know you weren’t,” Cas says, frowning, head tilted to the side. Then his eyes fall to the nightstand behind Dean. The ring. He pauses. Then: “That’s my side, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Dean says and hurries to walk around to the other side. Where Cas’s wife used to sleep probably. This is a lot more awkward and a lot less… whatever his mind insisted on daydreaming about. 

He clears his throat, sitting on the bed like he’s testing the mattress. But he can’t stop thinking about the ring, or the picture in the piano room, or the boxes with decorations in the attic. He doesn’t break so much as he bends, checking over his shoulder, Cas gazing at him baffled.

“Is that…” he doesn’t finish his question, but he gestures with his head towards the ring, and that’s enough.

Cas nods without having to check what Dean is pointing at. “I keep it on my nightstand so it’s always close by.”

It’s not his place. It’s really not his place to say what’s on his mind, and Dean had decided so just yesterday, too. But…

“Why do you keep all pictures of your wife out of sight?”

Cas’s eyes snap up to meet his. He fidgets, and he opens and closes his mouth a couple of times without producing any sound. “It’s easier,” he says, finally. “Looking at pictures of her… I don’t think I can do it.”

“Dude, you can’t live like this forever,” Dean says, and presses on because he can’t give Cas the time to argue with him. Now that he’s taken the first step, he might as well finish what he’s saying. “I know that it’s hard, but at some point you have to learn to live with it. Be happy in the memories you have with her, don’t wallow in self pity. She wouldn’t want that. And I bet she wouldn’t want you living like a recluse either.”

This should be the moment Cas gets mad again. Dean is already anticipating it and just wishes he gets kicked out of the room instead of out of the house entirely. 

But Cas deflates. He looks empty and hollow. His fingers trace the edge of the nightstand but never stray close to the ring. “It's easier said than done.”

“But you have to do it at some point,” Dean says. He turns around, facing the other way. He doesn't need to see the pain in Cas’s eyes.

“Visiting Gabe would have been the first time I left the house in three years,” Cas says softly, like a whisper.

“That feels like a bigger step than putting a picture on a table,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck. He's not exactly the best person to talk about feelings and dealing with them, but Cas just might be the one person on planet earth worse than him at this.

The bed behind him dips, Cas taking a seat, too, and now they're sitting back to back. “Probably. But fate clearly didn't want me to take that step.”

“Oh, yeah, fate had this other awesome plan for you, where you get trapped in your house with a grease monkey,” Dean says, half-joking.

“You're not a grease monkey,” Cas shoots back immediately. “But you're right. Maybe I do have to… face the situation.”

When Dean dares to glance over, Cas has his shoulders hunched, head dropped. He takes a breath through his nose, his whole body rising and falling with it.

“The truth is I've been hiding,” Cas continues. Maybe it's easier for him to talk when they aren't looking at each other. When Dean is a stranger. “Staying here, alone, it meant I didn't have to face a world without her, but I think… I think it had the opposite effect. I trapped myself in a cage with nothing else but memories of what I'd lost. So I locked it all away.”

“Well, getting out there is out of the question now.” Dean's words are echoed by the howling of the wind outside. “So how about we start from the photographs? Baby steps.”

“Baby steps.” 

The bed shifts, and Dean feels the weight of Cas’s eyes on his back. He turns to meet his gaze, and Cas looks so small, and broken, and soft, Dean feels the world tilt on its axis a bit. He swallows, at a loss for words.  Cas is staring at him, unblinking, the full weight of his intense gaze solely focused on Dean. It's kind of nice.

“I'll let you get ready for bed,” Cas says, breaking the spell. 

He gets up and leaves the room, giving Dean enough time to change clothes and slide under the blankets. The fireplace in this room keeps everything in a much more comfortable temperature than what Dean's gotten used to in the last couple of nights, and he melts into the mattress with a satisfied sigh. He might actually get some sleep tonight.

Cas chooses that moment to return, ready for bed since he never changed out of his pjs. He comes carrying the picture from the piano, which he places on his nightstand. Dean watches him hesitate for a second, like he's not sure he wants to leave it standing, but then his fingers curl into his palm, and he moves on.

The mattress shifts, the blanket lifts and falls and just like that they're lying side by side. Cas has already turned the electricity off, plunging the room into darkness but for the glow of the fire. It's just the two of them, the sound of their breaths, the crackling of the wood as it burns and Dean's heartbeat, louder than everything else in his ears.

He'd promised himself, and yet the moment Cas touched this bed his brain kept on providing all these scenarios for how this could play out. 

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas says turning to his side, facing the other way.

“Goodnight, Cas.”

His heart refuses to settle, though.

Maybe he won't get that much sleep after all.


	5. King of Scrabble

Blinking awake, Dean lets the early morning haze wash over him. His room is still dark, save for a single ray of light that manages to sneak in through a gap in his curtains. Dust particles dance in it, swirling and tumbling. 

It’s warm.

He pulls the blanket tighter around him, ready to bask in the cozy, half-sleeping glow of the morning, but something complains behind him, shifts and presses against his back,  warm and solid.

Not something.  _ Someone. _

Dean’s eyes snap open, surveying the room again. A nightstand right next to his head, a fireplace across the room.  It’s not his room, or his house. He’s still snowed in, and the body pressed against him, snoring softly, is a best selling crime author. He lifts off the pillow to check, and Cas huffs annoyed, pulling the blanket higher until his nose and forehead are the only things left out of it. He’s still sleeping.

Dean gulps, last night coming back to him in bits and pieces. 

He hasn’t slept next to someone in a long time. Growing older and taking over more responsibilities at work means he’s neglected his social life in the last couple of years, but he slept like a baby last night with Cas next to him.  Something stirs inside him. Something Dean’s not ready to examine this early in the morning, and certainly not in his current situation.  What’s the polite thing to do here? It’ll be weird if he stays in bed with Cas. Yeah, definitely weird. It’s not a middle school sleepover where he’ll have to stay in bed until his host wakes up. No matter how soft the mattress is, and no matter how comfortable he’d been all night. 

He slips out of the bed, hissing at the cold floor under his bare feet, grabs his clothes and tiptoes out of the room, even though there’s an ensuite bathroom that is much closer and changing there would be faster. He figures it won’t make much of a difference once he has the electricity running again.

A few minutes later he’s in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, just some simple grilled cheese toasts. He’s careful with the food they have left, but he’s not exactly worried. It’s already the third day of the blizzard, it can’t go on for much longer.

Hopefully.

Cas appears an hour or so later, hair askew and a wild look in his eyes that makes an electric shock go down Dean’s spine. He walks like he’s seen a ghost, gazing around the kitchen until his eyes land on Dean.

Dean holds his eyes, and swallows his bite. “Good morning, Cas.”

“Good morning. Is that breakfast?”

“Yeah. I’ve made enough for you, too.” Dean pushes the plate towards him, before gesturing to the empty chair next to him.

“Thank you,” Cas says. He gobbles down two toasts in record time, drinks the glass of milk Dean sets out for him, and then, a thin trail of milk going down his stubbly chin, he adds, “I think I want to try writing today. I dreamed… I think I know how to fix my story. If you don’t mind I’ll spend some time in my room.”

“Sure, no problem,” Dean answers, squinting at him leaving the room. It’s not like Cas has been doing anything different since Dean got here, so why he feels the need to point it out today is beyond him. Writers are a weird bunch, that’s for sure. 

But with Cas in his room again, Dean has nothing to do. So he resorts back to reading the novels he’s brought with him. The second one is far shorter than the first, and with nothing better to do, Dean finishes it well before it’s time to cook lunch.  After he’s done with it, he wanders around the living room, taking in the tall bookcases lining one of the walls. Cas has a pretty big selection, but what catches his eye is a row of books a little lower than his eye level, where Cas’s books are displayed along with a picture of him and Charlie with his first novel in hand.  He’s read quite a few of them, and they’re good. He wasn’t lying when he’d told Cas he’s a fan. He traces the spines with a finger, then takes one out and settles back in the couch, blanket up to his hips.  It’s the last one Cas wrote, published a couple of years ago if Dean remembers correctly. Benny had bought him a copy for his birthday. It’s an awesome story, he already knows that, but he still hesitates. Now that he’s met Cas and he’s lived with him for a few days, reading his books feels different. More personal.

Asking for permission sounds dumb, though. They are published books for God’s sake.

He opens the book, and his eyes fall on the dedication page.

_ To Daphne, always. _

He goes back and checks the publication date. Cas said that his wife passed away three years ago so this book came out after her death. 

He stares at the dedication again. And stares some more. He thinks of Cas alone in this giant house for three years, finishing a book and then starting a new one, dreading the time Christmas comes around every year. How much he must have loved his wife and how much it must have hurt when he lost her. 

He thinks about finding someone that he could love so much. A love so unfailing and all-consuming that it’s hard to go on living after the other person is gone.

He thinks about his dad losing his mom, but that only leaves a hollowness in his chest and a bitter taste in his mouth.

When he lets his mind go back to Cas, the hollowness is still there, but there’s also something else. Small and precious, and it makes his heart skips a beat.

Dean snaps the book closed.

He’s so screwed.

* * *

It’s almost too late for lunch when Castiel reemerges out of his room. 

Dean looks up from the couch where he’s been reading one of the other books he found—not written by Cas—and waves at him. “Hey, hungry? I’ve made lunch.”

Castiel pads into the room, robe hanging open over his pajamas. “I hope you didn’t wait for me.”

“It’s fine,” Dean says, checking the number of the page he’s reading. He closes the book and leaves it on the floor by the couch. “Sitting around all day doesn’t exactly give me an appetite. Come on, help me set the table.”

They work side by side, moving in sync like they’ve been doing this for years instead of days, and though there’s plenty of space for both of them in the roomy kitchen, Dean finds that he keeps gravitating back to Cas. It’s not his fault that the glasses he picks up are in the same cabinet as the plates Cas retrieves, or that when Cas goes for forks, he’s picking up the towels from the counter just next to the cutlery drawer. It’s not his fault when he passes one plate of steaming food to Cas and their fingers brush either. These things just happen.

“So how did writing go?” Dean asks, one elbow on the kitchen island, body half turned to face Castiel.

“Very good actually. I made a lot of progress.”

Castiel starts a long monologue about his protagonist and the ethical dilemma he faces while trying to solve this new crime fate and Cas have thrown at him, and his face glows. His eyes are shining, lips tugging up in a smile unlike any Dean has seen on him so far. It’s beautiful.  It’s like Cas is a completely different person, unburdened by grief and loss. Is this what he’ll be like if he ever manages to move forward with his life? So animated, and excited and just… beautiful. 

Dean’s tempted to ask, but the words get stuck behind his teeth, throat coming up dry, and he asks about Cas’s book instead. A far safer topic, that doesn’t disturb the peace they’ve found together. 

He wonders about it though.

* * *

“Look what I found,” Cas says later, joining Dean in the living room, a Scrabble box in his hand.

Dean raises an eyebrow at him, gathering his feet close to his body to make space for Cas on the couch. “Is this a challenge?”

“I figured you could use some company.” Cas glances at the book on Dean’s lap, licking his lips. “Unless you’d rather spend some time alone.”

“Dude, no,” Dean says immediately, hand darting out to close around Cas’s wrist. “I’ve had enough of alone time to last me a lifetime. Trust me, I’d love to play boardgames.”

“Even against a writer?” Cas asks, neither of the two bothering to acknowledge Dean’s fingers still on him. He sits closer, instead of pulling back, until Dean’s sure there’s not enough space between them to set up the game and positively doesn’t care.

“I have to warn you, I used to play against my brother, and he’s the biggest nerd in the whole damn world,” Dean says, smirking, though everything inside him has turned hot, too hot to be comfortable.

“We’ll see how that goes,” Cas promises, a hint of mischief to his voice. This time he does move away, Dean’s fingers sliding away, and in a few minutes they have the game set up.

Cas is good, very good, Dean has to give him that, but growing up with Sam who threw out words like  _ equalize  _ and  _ quixotic _ when no ten year old should know these words has honed his skills to perfection. It’s a tight race, the board filling up quickly to every direction, their scores close enough that neither can be sure of his victory until the very last moment.  Cas frowns down at his letters, pink lips opening slightly while he mulls a thought over, and Dean forces himself to look back at the board or be thoroughly distracted. It’s been a challenge, keeping his head in the game, what with all the adorable expressions Cas keeps pulling, and his hands.  God, his hands. Strong forearms, thick fingers.  It’s hard to keep his mind out of the gutter, especially with the memory or Cas pressed up against him while sleeping, but Dean is nothing if not stubborn, and he won’t let a pretty guy beat him in Scrabble because his blood couldn’t stay in the right body part, no matter how ridiculously pretty Cas is. 

But looking doesn’t do any harm, right? Just a stolen glance here and there. 

Cas breaks out in a wide grin, too smug for Dean’s liking, and he arranges his next word—and last, since there isn’t any more space left—on the board.

Dean blinks.

_ Assbutt. _

The urge to rub his eyes is strong, but Dean just stares at the word harder. “Dude, that’s not a real word.”

“Sure is,” Cas says, already busy counting his points.

Dean crosses his hands over his chest. “It’s not. Bring me a dictionary, and I’ll prove it to you.”

“I don’t have a dictionary,” Cas says, and the little fucker shrugs. “You should take my word for it, I’m a writer you know.”

So convenient. A writer that doesn’t have a dictionary. Lies is what Dean calls it, but there’s a glint of amusement in Cass’ eyes that makes Dean’s stomach twist in a very good way, and all the resolve he had crumbles like a card tower.

“Fine,” he says, narrowing his eyes at Castiel. “You win this time. But just watch me swiping the floor with your loser assbutt next round.”

Cas bites his lower lip, his face that of a man that is enjoying himself too much for Dean’s liking. “That’s not a proper use of the word assbutt.”

“Did you just call me an assbutt?” Dean asks, a hand over his chest in mock offense.

“Maybe. Or maybe I was just pointing out that the word ‘assbutt’ is not used that way. I guess we’ll never know.”

“Oh that’s it. I’m going all out on you this time,” Dean declares, gathering all the letters back in the pouch to start a new round. He squints at Castiel, but he has to force his face to contort into something close to irritated. A smile keeps asking to come out instead.

They play well into the night, their words becoming more and more ridiculous with every turn, to the point that Dean just starts smashing letters together in a way they vaguely resemble words not even caring whether or not they’re plausible or not. Judging for Castiel’s delighted face and even more ridiculous ‘words’—and the guy used actual finger quotes when trying to dissuade Dean from using  _ idjit _ even though it’s a legit word that plenty of people outside of Dean’s immediate family probably use—he thinks he doesn’t care either.

The game ends with Dean bent over laughing, and Castiel adding random letters everywhere he can find space just to win a handful of points that doesn’t even bring him close to winning.

“What do you call a best selling crime author that is beaten in Scrabble by a mechanic?” Dean manages to ask in between gulping breaths of air and more laughing.

“Unlucky?” Cas says, the perfect picture of neutrality.

“Sure, blame it on luck.”

“You won’t be as lucky tomorrow,” Cas promises, gathering everything back in the box and indirectly admitting his defeat. He’s still smiling though, thin lines permanently etched around his eyes the entire time.

Dean sits back in the couch, revelling in his victory. “You want to try again tomorrow?”

“I enjoyed our game. It was a nice change of pace,” Cas admits, not meeting Dean’s eyes. “If you don’t want to play Scrabble I’m sure I can find my Monopoly hidden somewhere in this house.”

“Both ideas sound good to me,” Dean says, acutely aware of his heart tap dancing inside his chest at the thought of Cas wanting to spend more time with him. 

Cas stretches his back, a hand covering a big yawn. “You’ve worn me out. I think it’s time for bed, what do you say?”

“Uh, sure,” Dean agrees, swiping his sweaty palms on the blanket covering his legs, head stuck in a loop of all the other ways he can wear Cas out, all of them forbidden and definitely not the best thing to think about before he has to go to bed with the guy. To sleep. They’re going to bed to sleep, he reminds himself and his stirring dick.

“I’ll turn off the electricity if you light the fire in the bedroom,” Cas offers, pushing himself up, and Dean easily agrees with him. 

Keeping himself busy is always a good idea.

* * *

They find a routine. Cas writes in the mornings, almost feverish in his haste to gulp down whatever breakfast and coffee Dean has prepared for him before he types the hours away, and in the evenings they play board games. 

Cas beats him in Scrabble when they play fair and square, and Dean proves himself the king of Monopoly time and time again. Sometimes they’ll sit in front of the fireplace in the bedroom just talking, and those are Dean’s favourite evenings. Cas tells him about growing up with an older brother that loved to pull pranks, and Dean laughs because he’s still that brother to Sammy.  He shares stories about crazy and demanding customers from work, then goes on to talk about the time his brother was learning to drive and scratched his Baby. Inevitably that leads to a long discussion about the Impala and how many times Dean’s rebuilt her from the ground up.

“Why not upgrade it a bit?” Cas asks, a cup of coffee in his hands. “Add an iPod jack or something. It wouldn’t be difficult for you.”

“Oh, no, no no no. I’m not defiling my Baby like that. She’s an old fashioned lady,” Dean says, leaving no room for argument. “Besides, cassettes are better. They’re solid and, and, a thing you can hold onto and rewind and gift. You can’t just give someone an iPod and say, ‘Here, I’ve put all my favourite songs in here,’ can you?”

“Ah, so you’re a romantic at heart.”

“I’m a man that knows good music and good cars,” Dean shoots back.

Cas pretends to hide his smile behind his cup, and Dean pretends not to see it. 

In the mornings, while Dean has the house mostly to himself and too many hours to entertain himself solely by reading or being caught between wishing the blizzard would end and go on forever, he starts on a little project. The tools are right there, why shouldn’t he? And though he knows Cas isn’t a big fan of the holidays, he wants to give him something to thank him for the hospitality.

It’s good manners.  Dean tells himself that while he works in the garage, just like he tells himself that the few (increasing) times he slips up and flirts, Cas doesn't flirt back, it's just his imagination. 

Right?

Right.

Surely Cas doesn't realize he looks at Dean from under his lashes, or that when he tells Dean he can't go to sleep alone anymore it makes Dean weak in the knees. Cas hasn't noticed that they wake up cuddling more often than not, feet tangled, Dean either the pillow for a sleepy author or the small spoon. Of course he hasn't noticed.  Dean has made sure of that: waking up first every day and slipping away to take care of… certain areas of his body that are confused they're sleeping next to a gorgeous man—they have that man's dick touching their  _ ass _ for God's sake—and they are not getting laid.

One memorable day, two days before Christmas, Dean wakes up to Cas using him as a pillow yet again. He has his forehead tucked under Dean’s jaw, his hair tickling his nose, and an arm thrown over his chest. It’s heaven and hell all wrapped up with a red bow and tangling, literally, right under Dean’s nose.

Resigned already to this being his morning routine as long as the blizzard still goes strong, Dean tries to pull away, but Cas has other plans.  His hold on Dean tightens, and he nuzzles against him, stubble rough even through Dean’s top. 

“Don’t go,” he murmurs sleepily, voice rough and low, and Dean’s stomach breaks through the mattress and hits the floor in a flurry of nervous excitement.

But he shouldn’t. 

Cas probably doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. He’s still sleeping, dreaming of his wife and the life he used to have. If he knew it was Dean he’s cuddling with, he’d have already pulled away. He wouldn’t have put up with him for more than a few minutes, had it not been for the storm.  Dean has to remember that. 

Resolve hardened, he slips away, letting Cas drop gently back on the mattress and pull Dean’s pillow to his chest to bury his face in. He looks peaceful for once, his face free of the worry lines that are permanently etched around his eyes while he’s awake. Even the few times Dean has gotten him to laugh, Cas has never looked this trouble-free.

A warm glow spreads through Dean, and he has to pull himself away or be tempted back into the bed. He has a hundred reasons not to do that, so instead he goes out to start their day as usual. His little project is almost ready, and he can’t wait to put the finishing touches on it. 


	6. Time's Up

Christmas morning dawns with the same silver light filtering through the windows, the same frosty blanket covering the world outside the house that Dean has been seeing for the last two weeks. The house is dark and silent, save for the crackling of the fire in the living room. Hiding in his room, Cas is typing like a possessed person, and Dean is sitting on the couch with old newspapers strewn all over the floor. Gift wrapping paper is hard to find when snowed in. Who knew?

He tries to go for cheerful articles and pretty fonts on the paper, to at least make it somewhat presentable. There’s no bow, but Dean thinks Cas wouldn’t appreciate it anyway, seeing as he hates all things holidays and stuff. He’s planned this day carefully, even coming up with a dinner menu that Cas is sure to enjoy without being reminded of Christmas too much. Not that Dean could make some of his Christmas staples with just canned food and frozen leftovers, since that’s all they have left in the kitchen. No pie, sadly. But he did find some old VHS tapes that he tested and still work, so he can rope Cas into watching movies with him. 

It’s not what he had in mind for Christmas this year, but in a way it’s far better than drinking beers by himself. Even if he doesn’t have a Christmas tree, or gifts. Or phone signal to call his family.

He raises his head, checking the weather outside. It has stopped snowing, but everything is still frozen. He still has at least a couple of days in the best case scenario before he’s freed. He goes back to wrapping his gift, working until he’s satisfied with the small gift he has in his hands.

Cas appears for a late lunch, as always, and he’s pleasantly surprised at the VHS tapes Dean shows him. He’s even more pleasantly surprised at the small feast Dean presents him with. 

“That’s too much for lunch,” he points out, though he’s already piling food on his plate.

“It’s both lunch and dinner,” Dean says, not bothering to hide his smile.

They eat side by side on the couch, watching _E.T._ with a blanket over their laps to keep warm (though Dean did look longingly at a _Home Alone_ tape that’s in the box). It’s strangely domestic, their elbows brushing every time one of the two moves ever so slightly, but neither pulls away. Not until the movie is over and both their plates are empty.

It’s Dean that gets up first, taking Cas’s plate, too, on his way to the kitchen. “Seconds?”

“Oh, no. I’m stuffed,” Cas says, throwing the blanket off him. He rubs a hand over his belly, in the way a man well-fed only can, and pushes himself up. “I’ll help you clean up.”

“It’s fine, you’ve been working too hard lately,” Dean says over his shoulder. 

“I insist,” Cas starts, but doesn’t get very far, for he trips on the couch and drops to the floor.

“Shit, Cas, are you okay?” Dean puts the plates on the nearest available surface—the coffee table—and rushes to his side, a hand on his arm to help him up, the other on his side for no apparent reason other than it was his first instinct. It’s weird to pull it away now, so Dean doesn’t.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Cas says, accepting the helping hand nonetheless. He looks up at Dean, a thankful smile on his lips, before turning to get his knees under him, ready to push himself up again, when his whole body freezes, shoulders tensing, back arching. “What’s that?”

He drops back down, flat against the floor, and snakes his arm under the couch. He retrieves something round and red. The reflection of the fireplace shines on it.

“Oh,” Cas says, looking down at it, at the same time Dean realizes he’s holding on a Christmas ball. It must have rolled under the couch while Dean was taking all the decorations down, two weeks ago. It feels so distant now.

They stand there, with the seemingly innocent ball between them, suspended it time. Dean holds a breath while he waits for all hell to break loose, all his careful plans ruined by something he couldn’t have foreseen and Cas’s hatred for the holidays.

What happens instead, is that Cas takes a slow breath, nostrils flaring a bit, and he sits back on his heels. “I wonder how long that has been under there.”

Dean licks his lips, opening his palm to take the ornament back. “I’ll, I’ll just take it and put it back in the attic with the rest of it.”

Cas’s eyes flick up to him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You don’t exactly do well with _that_ kind of decorations,” Dean points out, hand still held out.

Cas never gives the ball back. “You’re right,” he says. “I was caught off guard the other time, walking in here and finding my living room looking like an elf threw up all over it, but this is fine. Baby steps, right?”

He looks at Dean from under his lashes, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips, and Dean’s chest swells, at the same time relief washes through him. Crisis averted.

He helps Cas back up and watches while he walks to the fireplace mantel and places the ornament there, a single red dot among the earthy tones of the entire living room. With that settled, Cas takes over from Dean, heading with their empty plates into the kitchen.

“So what are you thinking for tonight? Monopoly? Maybe another movie,” he says, when Dean finally manages to stop the roll of drums in his ears and comes to find him.

By then their plates are by the sink, drying, and Cas is leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, strong forearms exposed. As the complete, utter mess he is, Dean almost trips. No man should look that hot in pajamas, but this is Dean’s life now, being accidental roommates with a gorgeous author that manages to slay the silver lining between adorably domestic and unfairly hot. 

He’s so screwed.

He clears his throat, forcing his mind out of the gutter—and ignoring that lately the definition of gutter is daydreams about sleepy kisses and game nights that end with them cuddling on the couch—and tries to mimic the casual way Cas stands. 

He fails.

“I have something in mind actually,” he says, tip toeing around the subject. Maybe Cas didn’t freak out when he found that ornament, but Dean isn’t sure he can take being reminded that today it’s Christmas. Or that he’s spending it with a total stranger.

He leads Cas back to the living room, gesturing for him to sit back on the couch while he retrieves the newspaper wrapped box. He hesitates only for a second, something clenching between his lungs enough to cut his breath, but he’s made it this far, he might as well go all the way. Sitting next to Cas, he gazes up at him, takes in the lines of his face, softly illuminated by the fire, and before he can change his mind, Dean presents Cas with his little project.

“Oh,” Cas says, and it may be Dean projecting, but he sounds a little breathless. “Is that for me?”

“I know you don’t celebrate and you hate that kind of stuff and, and all that.” He swallows past the lump in his throat, and continues, “But I wanted to give you something. You don’t have to see it as a Chris—as a gift, but just as a thank you. For everything.”

“Thank you,” Cas says soft and earnest, and he takes the gift out of Dean’s hands. He turns it this way and that, examining it, before carefully unwrapping it. 

Dean feels heat rise up to his cheeks, and he wants to tell him that it’s fine, it’s just newspaper, it doesn’t matter if it gets ripped, but Cas takes such care of the cheap material, like it’s something precious and important just because Dean gave it to him, that he doesn’t manage to utter a single word. Finally, fucking finally, he brushes the paper to the side and uncovers what Dean worked on for the better part of two weeks: A wooden box, kind of rough around the edges and small.

Something in Cas’s eyes lights up. “Where did you get this?”

“I, uh, I made it,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck. “From firewood. I used the tools in your garage. I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s beautiful, Dean, thank you,” Cas says, strong fingers stroking the hand carved flower design on the lid, like he’s memorising every crude pattern and contour Dean spent hours carving through touch alone.

“It’s nothing,” Dean says, his old knee jerk reaction of playing everything down resurfacing. “It’s just some amateur work, and it still needs hinges and a latch, and maybe some velvet or some shit to line the inside, but I figured you might like it to keep your ring in it so it doesn’t get lost or something.”

He’s rambling and doesn’t realize what he’s said, until he takes in Cas’s mouth opening in a silent _O_ , eyes gleaming and glued on Dean. 

Shit.

Did he really just say his whole thought process out loud?

Shit, shit, shit.

Cas, once more blissfully unaware of Dean’s internal freak out, holds the box in his hands with something like awe painting his features. It’s too much, too much for a shitty gift Dean made out of a piece of wood they were going to burn anyway, and yet Cas has tears shining at the corner of his eyes.

“Thank you, that’s very thoughtful,” he whispers. 

As if in a dream, Dean watches Cas bring his hand up, slide his own ring off his finger, and before he can scream something along the lines of “Daphne’s ring! I meant Daphne’s ring, the one sitting on your nightstand,” Cas has placed the ring inside the box, put the lid back on and is clutching it tight to his chest.

Cas takes a breath, and Dean dares to breathe with him. Then the box is put to the side, oh so carefully, like it’s so precious Cas is scared it might break at any moment, and Cas is sitting closer to Dean, arms open, pulling Dean in. A hand slides across Dean’s back, another sneaks around his shoulders, and they’re hugging. A good, solid hug, Cas’s damp cheek pressed against Dean’s burning one. 

“Thank you,” Cas repeats into Dean’s hair, and Dean is weak. He hugs Cas tighter.

Something blossoms inside him, fills him up to the brim until he’s sure he’s going to burst with it.

Dean is in love. 

Cas is soft, and broken, and so beautiful, and Dean is in love with him.

He’s so screwed.

Cas is the first one to pull away, and though Dean’s whole body aches to stay in that embrace forever, there’s something about Cas’s expression that stops him short.

“Wait here,” Cas says, darting out of the room. 

It takes him a few minutes to return, which Dean spends with his heart in his throat, listening to Cas rummaging around on the second floor. He comes back with a cassette player under his armpit and a box in his hands.

“It’s not a gift,” he says hastily, dropping to his knees to plug the cassette player in the outlet. “It’s a thank you. For all the help and the company the last couple of weeks. These are Gabe’s, but there might be a few songs you like in there.” He passes the box over to Dean, filled to the brim with cassettes, with colourful labels and in too messy handwriting to belong to a writer.

Dean blinks at the contents of the box. “You brought me music,” he says, already going through to see if there’s anything he’s heard of. He doesn’t have to dig too deep before he finds one with a promising title in red marker. 

“It’s… I don’t celebrate,” Cas says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “But you seem like the type that loves holidays, and I know todays is, is Christmas,” he adds, almost choking on the last word, but he pushes on. “I don’t have a gift but maybe we can sort of celebrate. With music.”

“I’d like that,” Dean says, feeling something hot rise up through his body. It’s not the confession he wants to make, but he’s not letting those three words slip out. “If you don’t mind.”

“I think we still have beers,” Cas says, dodging Dean’s last comment, but it’s as good as a positive answer.

And so they celebrate. First with low music and beers, then with loud rock bursting through the speakers and tipsy laughter filling the room. Two beers become three, then four, and then, when they run out of beer, Cas brings out the whiskey. Tipsy becomes somewhat drunk, and rock becomes whatever ridiculous pop music Cas’s brother was listening to as a teenager. Sitting side by side and sharing stories becomes a dance competition, then just dancing.

“One more,” Cas declares when the cassette ends, and grabs one at random. 

Dean comes closer, uses the excuse of wanting more to drink to crowd Cas against the table and crush their fingers together as he wrestles the bottle out of Cas’s grabby hands. There’s a warm buzz spreading through his body, mind foggy around the edges only enough to allow him not to worry about his earlier revelation. There’s no use in worrying when Cas is bright, and warm, and smiling with crinkles around his eyes like that. Dean can enjoy himself for a single night and imagine what it could have been like.

Cas pouts at him, and Dean gives him a wink before lifting the bottle to his lips to take a generous swing.

There’s the click of the play button, and the sound of the tape rewinding . The first few notes take Dean by surprise, until he realises they have the wrong tape on.

“That’s not a fun song, we can’t have a dance-off to a ballad” he says, frowning at the soft melody and slow music, but Cas crowds even closer to him.

“No, no, you see, we can still dance,” Cas points out, looking up at him, flush faced and gorgeous, and Dean goes a little weak at the knees. Thank God he can blame it on the alcohol if Cas notices.

Cas doesn’t comment on Dean’s swaying. On the contrary, he seems to have completely misinterpreted it. He grabs Dean’s hand, slides the other around his waist and presses closer. Close enough that they’re breathing the same air.

If Dean ducked his head just so, their noses would touch. 

Cas’s eyes drift half-closed, and he mumbles something under his breath like he’s counting. Then they’re off, Cas leading them around the room to the rhythm of a stupid old love song Dean’s heard hundreds of times before and never once spared it a second thought. It’s seared into his brain now, carved with every soft caress of Cas’s fingers on his back, every puff of breath he can feel tickling his neck, every verse Cas messes up and mumbles through it until the next chorus part that he sings by Dean’s ear.

Chest to chest, Cas twirls them around, feet tangling occasionally and making something warm crawl its way further up Dean’s body with every passing second. He’s dizzy, buzzing with more than just alcohol in his veins, and by the end of the song he’s sure he’s smiling like a fool. A fool in love.

The song fades out and the next one starts—a little faster and definitely not suited for slow dancing—but Cas doesn’t step away. His hold on Dean is still steady.

He lifts his head, gazes straight at Dean with wide eyes, and Dean can’t look away, not even when Cas’s lips part on a word than never makes it out. He’s too busy counting his heartbeats in his ear, willing his pulse not to rise under Cas’s fingers on his wrist. Cas presses up, rises to his tip toes, but Dean doesn’t realise what’s happening until he sees his eyes flutter closed, and then there are lips on his, dry and chapped and so much more than any daydream Dean’s fantasy could have made up. 

He presses back, shy and tentative, letting go of Cas’s hand to go for his hips instead. The caress of fingers on his back become a hold and a squeeze, pulling them closer together, lips gliding together on their own slow dance. He can feel Cas’s stubble scratching the skin around his lips, sending a tingling thrill down his spine. Cas sighs against his lips, and Dean takes the opportunity to mouth along his jaw, to press butterfly kisses behind his ear. His hand, still clutching Cas’s shoulder, glides up to the back of his neck to guide their mouths back together, and that’s what jostles Cas out of his reverie.

He turns his head around, Dean’s lips landing somewhere above his cheekbone before he realises that Cas has gone cold. 

Cas’s hands fall away, and he steps back as much as Dean’s embrace will let him. 

“Are you—” Dean starts, licking his lips nervously.

“I’m not,” Cas says, jerking back, eyes wide and terrified. He looks up at Dean like he’s never seen him before. 

Dean’s stomach twists with dread, threatens to rise up his throat and spill all its contents right then and there. He swallows the bile down, grasping around for words and finding only thin air. 

“I just,” Cas says, shaking his head. “I just need some time, I think. Some space.”

He grabs the box Dean gave him and runs out of the room, leaving Dean with his heart shrivelling and crumbling.

He surely screwed that up.

* * *

Dean jerks awake, the ringing of his phone slashing through the heavy fog of sleep. Who the hell is calling him this early in the morning? Dean’s not in the mood to talk with anyone, not after all his hopes were snatched right out of his hand and then he spent the entire night sleeping on the floor. 

He checks the screen and sees Bobby’s name. 

Of course it’s Bobby. 

He tosses the phone to his side, rubbing the sleep from his eyes until the phone goes silent. And then it starts ringing again. Shit, Bobby better have a good reason for being so insistent.

Wait.

Dean lunges for his phone and answers with a shaky voice. “Bobby?”

“Boy, finally,” Bobby says, relief evident in his tone. “We’ve been trying to call ya for a couple of weeks now. Ellen almost went crazy with worry.”

“Where is he? Is he okay?” Ellen’s voice is muffled, like she’s trying to get closer to the speaker but Bobby keeps her away.

“Wait, wait, I’ll put him on speaker.” There’s some shuffling and cursing, then a beep and suddenly both voices sound more distant. “Alright, idjit, talk to us.”

“I’m fine,” Dean reassures them immediately. “I was at the house I was supposed to be taking care of through the holidays when the worst of the storm hit us.”

“Dean, they were talking about blackouts and closed off roads on the news,” Ellen says. “We tried to drive back as soon as we heard but we were turned back before we even reached the state line.”

“As if a little snow would stop us,” Bobby huffs, and his eye roll is almost audible.

“Yeah, it was pretty bad, but the house here has a generator, and we had plenty of food stocked so it wasn’t exactly bad. Sure it was cold and kind of isolated, but we’re okay, nothing to worry about.”

There’s a pause.

“ _We_?”

Crap. Count on Ellen to zero in on that small slip of the tongue. It seems even her motherly instincts kicking in can’t stop her from catching every single one of Dean’s lies. 

“Um, Cas, the owner of the house, never made it to the airport so we got snowed in here together. But it was fine, I promise.”

“Is that so?” Ellen asks, in the voice of a woman set on tormenting Dean until she got the whole story out of him.

Thankfully, Bobby comes to Dean’s rescue, more keen on dealing with practical issues. “They’ve started clearing the roads since last night. We’re driving back down there as soon as we can.”

“Oh they are?” Dean asks, pushing himself up. He wraps the blanket around his shoulders, but finds he doesn’t need it—unless Cas woke up, started the generator and then went back to his room, electricity is back on. He walks to the front door to check and it’s true, not only it has finally stopped snowing, but Dean can finally see the sky again. The visibility is pretty good actually, he can see more than a few feet ahead. As if summoned, the sluggish roar from down the road announces the slow trek of a snow removal machine. 

Huh.

“You get your ass back home as fast as you can, you hear me?” Ellen doesn’t ask, she commands. “And call your brother. He’s been calling us non stop for news. He missed his flight trying to come to Lawrence.”

“Wait, he did?” 

Ellen’s words are barely registering. Dean’s too busy thinking of one thing and one thing only—there’s nothing holding him here anymore. Once the snow removal machine reaches the house—and it won’t be long now—there’ll be nothing stopping a tow truck to come and pick him up. 

“Dean? Are ya listening?” Bobby asks. 

“Sure, yeah. Totally,” Dean says, shutting the front door again. “Hey, Bobby, look I gotta go, the Impala won’t start, and I have to call a tow truck.”

“So call Garth, ya idjit,” Bobby grumbles. “That’s what we’re paying him for.”

Okay, yeah. Calling Garth is a much better idea, or even calling any of the guys from the garage. They’ll come pick him up as soon as possible, holidays be damned and everything, which, now that he thinks about it, would have been what he should have done two weeks ago instead of waiting for a random tow truck. Why didn’t he think of that?

Okay, so he knows he was a little distracted with staring and drooling, but still. Dean’s an idiot. 

He promises Bobby and Ellen to call Garth and then to call Sam, too, and he ends the call. It’s nice to hear familiar voices again. It grounds him in way. The last days feel like a dream, like he’s been living in a world where nothing is real except him and Cas and the secluded house up the hill. It’s a welcome, if a little cruel reminder that the world kept on going out there. And he should pack up and join it. Cas is probably itching to see him go after last night.

Two phone calls and half a duffel bag made later, Cas decides to show his face. Despite the heating being on he has his thick robe tightly tied around him. He walks into the living room silent, almost hesitant.

“Good morning, Dean,” he says from the doorway, eyes following Dean as he finishes packing the last of his stuff.

“Hey, Cas. Did you sleep well?” In the few hours Dean had before falling asleep last night, mood dampened by both rejection and alcohol, he came to the conclusion that there’s no reason to sit around and let Cas pity him. Acting like nothing’s wrong is the way to go to protect both his heart and his ego from further damage.

What was he even thinking? Kissing a man who is so obviously still mourning his wife. A tiny voice in the back of his head points out that it was Cas who kissed _him_ , but Dean is a stubborn mule and ignores it.

Cas takes a tentative step inside, arms wrapped around himself like he’s scared Dean might hurt him. “You didn’t come to bed last night,” he says almost accusingly, and it sounds too much like a thing couples fight about for Dean’s comfort.

“I figured I wasn’t welcome,” he says without looking up. “After last night and everything.”

“Oh.” Cas audibly deflates, all the fight gone out of him just as suddenly as it appeared. “I just—there was no reason for you to sleep on the floor, so…” he trails off, long enough for Dean to finally suck it up and look up.

Cas is squinting at him, head tilted to the side in that adorable gesture he does when trying to figure something out. 

“What are you doing?” Cas asks after too long a pause.

Dean gestures around him. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m packing up. Blizzard’s over, phone’s working again, and one of the guys from the garage will come get me.”

“You’re leaving,” Cas says. Not a question, a statement. 

Dean sighs, drops the last pair of jeans inside his bag before turning to face Cas, hands on his hips. He’s sure he looks far more put together than he feels. Certainly far more than Cas does.

“Look, I’m sorry okay? About what happened last night. It was a shitty thing of me to do, and I took advantage of your good mood or whatever, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” He chuckles bitterly, glancing towards the windows behind him, through which they now have a perfect view of the snow-covered garden. “Not that you have to worry about it. You don’t have to put up with me anymore.”

“But I don’t—” Cas starts, but the cheery honk of a car stops him.

“That’s probably for me,” Dean says, grabbing his bag.

“Dean, wait,” Cas says, following him down the corridor. “You’re really going to leave?”

“Hey, look at it this way, no more distractions from your book, right?” Dean says over his shoulder, not trusting himself not to tear up if he just stops and talks to Cas properly. He can already feel his throat growing tight. He grabs his coat from the hanger and pulls his boots on without bothering to lace them. He gives Cas a lazy salute. “So Happy New Year I guess, and I’ll see you around. Um, probably not, but you know.”

He walks out the door, scowling at Garth’s stupid grin. He already has the Impala ready to go, and throws the door of the truck open for Dean to climb in.

“You’re alright, boss?” he asks, tongue in cheek.

“Just drive,” Dean says. He doesn’t look at the house through the mirror or at Cas standing at the front door. He doesn’t. And he certainly doesn’t think about the cassette player he’s left on the piano for Cas to find.


	7. A Miracle for New Year's Eve

“I still can’t believe you booked a BnB last minute for New Years,” Dean says, all his attention on the pan he has on the stove. He has his phone propped against the wall, his brother’s stupid face taking up the whole screen, and his stupid grin taking up his whole stupid face.

Maybe Dean should have gone for a normal phone call instead of a video.

“Just because Paris didn’t happen doesn’t mean I’m going to give up,” Sam replies, chewing on his bottom lip. “I think Eileen’s suspicious, though.”

“Hey, don’t be nervous. That girl’s head over heels for you—God knows why anyone would fall for a sasquatch with a bad haircut, but my point is,” he adds, raising his voice to cut Sam’s protests short, “that there’s no way ever, that she’s going to say no.”

Sam exhales, shaking his head, his stupid hair falling over his eyes and he doesn’t bother to brush them away. “Wow, I think that’s the best compliment you’ve ever given me.”

“Don’t get used to it, bitch.”

“As if, jerk.”

“Dean, Ellen called. They’re waiting for the glazed ham to be ready, and they’ll come over right after,” Charlie calls from the other room, where she and Gilda are finishing decorating Dean’s tree.

Dean hadn’t bothered to decorate it before Christmas because he thought he’d be spending it in another house—which he did—and he didn’t bother to decorate it after because he didn’t feel like it. Charlie was immediately appalled and invited herself over early at his house to help decorate. Ellen and Bobby will arrive later, and they’ll all welcome the New Year with full stomachs and too much alcohol.  What could be better?

“Eileen’s coming,” Sam says, checking something off screen. “Gotta go. I’ll call you after to tell you how it went.”

“Break a leg,” is all Dean has the time to say before the call ends.

Well, who’d have thought? Sammy is getting engaged tonight. It seems like just yesterday Dean was in charge of all of Sam’s meals and driving him to and from school. How the years have flown by. 

He’s happy. Of course he is, Eileen’s awesome and Sam deserves all the happiness in the world.  It’s just that it hits a little too close to home. And he knows he’s an asshole for being jealous of his little brother, but he’s only human. Dreaming about blue eyes every night for the last week hasn’t helped. Waking up alone hasn’t helped either.

Food ready, he transfers it on a plate to cool and puts the pan in the sink to deal with later.

Everything is going according to schedule. They have the food prepared, pies cooling since this morning, and table set for five. Now they’re just waiting for Ellen to show up with her phenomenal glazed ham and Dean can just enjoy his family’s company. 

There’s a knock on the door, and Charlie’s “I’m coming,” as she rushes to answer it.

Dean checks his phone distractedly. It’s too early for Ellen and Bobby to arrive, but maybe he’s been holed up in the kitchen far longer than he thought.  Charlie’s surprised cry catches his attention. There’s no way she’s yelling like this for Bobby and Ellen. No matter how much whiskey Bobby has brought over.

He rounds the corner to get to the front door, only to freeze midstep.  There’s Charlie in the doorway, her arms around a man, a mop of dark hair visible over her shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” Charlie is asking, screeching high enough to communicate with dolphins. “ _ How _ are you here? I can’t believe you left the house.”

“I can explain,” Cas says, patting her awkwardly in the back. Then he lifts his eyes, and he sees Dean.

Dean doesn’t look away. Or try to hide. He just stands there, staring at Castiel staring straight back.

“Um, I hope you got the draft I emailed earlier today,” Cas says to Charlie, without breaking eye contact.

“Sure did. Forwarded to the boss and everything already, but I didn’t have the time to look it over,” Charlie says, releasing him. She follows his eyesight and raises an eyebrow in Dean’s direction. “But that doesn’t explain what you are doing  _ here _ .”

Dean only told her the basics of what had happened while he and Cas were trapped together for two weeks, which means he skipped any talk of feelings and kisses and rejections.

Cas licks his lips. “May I speak with Dean? Please.”

Charlie eyes them both suspiciously, but she says, “Sure, why not.” She grabs Gilda, who has come to see what all the fuss is about and drags her towards the kitchen—probably to steal a few bites from the food Dean slaved all day over to make.  Dean finds that he can’t master the strength to care. All his attention is focused on the one person he was convinced he’d never see again.

Cas shifts his weight, like he’s not sure what to say.

“Hey,” Dean says, hoping that might get things going. 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas answers. A pause. He’s still standing outside the door, hovering near the threshold. 

“Well, come on in.” Dean gestures towards the living room and the half-decorated tree.

Cas sees it, just as he sees the garlands Charlie has draped over every available surface, and he hesitates. He swallows. “This is probably a bad idea.”

He turns to leave, and Dean grabs his elbow on instinct, stopping him. “Hey, you made it all the way here, at least let me get you a coffee or something if you don’t want to stay for dinner.”

Cas mouth twists into something unsure. “I don’t want to intrude on your family celebration.”

“Cas, it’s fine. I’m inviting you. You’re welcome to celebrate with us. If you, uh, if you want to celebrate that is.”

Cas nods, allowing Dean to pull him inside. He still hasn’t answered properly to Dean’s invitation when the door closes.

“I realised I never got you a gift,” he says instead, and before Dean can tell him that it’s fine, he never expected a gift, and his own was crappy anyway, Cas thrusts a poorly wrapped boxy thing in his hands. 

Newspaper instead of wrapping paper he notices, and damn him if that doesn’t give him the tiniest bit of pink tinge across his cheeks. 

“You might not want it, but it’s my book. The new one. I mean it’s still the first draft, and it’s probably crap, but I wanted you to have it. I finished it, romance and internal conflict and everything,” Cas says, flushing all the way to his hair roots.

It’s adorable.

Which is why Dean keeps his eyes glued to the still wrapped book. “Thanks, Cas. This means a lot. So did you figure out what kind of story you wanted to tell in the end?”

Cas shoves his hands in his pockets, hunches his shoulders like he’s nervous. “It’s about a grinch that learned to love Christmas again.” He looks straight up at Dean, eyes impossibly blue. “He learned to love all over again.”

“I thought it was going to be about a murder,” Dean says, forcing himself to give Cas a smile. It comes out weak and strained.

“There’s a murder, too, but that’s not the important part of the story,” Cas says, and keeps on staring at Dean like he’s trying to convey something. Something that Dean is clearly missing.

He tears the newspaper away, brushing his thumb over the edge of the manuscript. There’s no cover, or even a proper spine. It’s a stack of white papers, the title of the book printed front and center,  _ James C. Novak _ right underneath it.

“ _ Murder on a Christmas Morning _ , huh?” Dean asks, opening the book on a random page and leafing through it.

“The title is still up for debate,” Cas says. “I’m sure Charlie can help me come up with something better.”

“Thanks, Cas. This is amazing, really.” Dean smiles again, and this time it feels a little more genuine. He closes the book and turns to Cas, who is still in his coat and scarf, a beanie with a very fluffy pom pom pulled all the way over his ears. “Dude, come on, give me your coat. Go find somewhere to sit in the living room, and I’ll grab you a beer, okay?”

Cas hesitates, but Dean opens his hand stubbornly, and finally he gives in. He gives Dean his coat, scarf and beanie, then unsurely walks towards the Christmas tree.

Dean makes a small detour to drop Cas’s stuff on his bed—where all the guests coats go—and then he finds Charlie and Gilda in the kitchen, bent over a slice of apple pie.

“No eating before dinner,” he says, waving a warning finger towards them, and they both shrug sheepishly.

“Would you rather we were spying on you and tall, dark, and handsome?” Gilda asks, using the back of her hand to clean some crumbles from her lips. She smears some of her red lipstick, and Charlie huffs, grabbing a napkin to fix it for her.

“Tall, dark, and handsome is Castiel Novak, my writer. The one Dean was stuck with during the storm?”

“Oh, that’s the one? I’ve never seen him before,” Gilda says, interest shining in her eyes, despite the napkin scrubbing down her chin.

“What did he want?” Charlie asks, nodding satisfied at the result of her hard work cleaning her girlfriend’s face.

“Um, came by to drop a gift for me?” Dean says, showing her the manuscript he’s still holding. “I invited him to stay for dinner.”

“That’s a good idea, he needs to get out more. Can I see the gift?” Charlie beams at him, making grabby hands at him. 

Dean passes it over, and she squeals with delight once she realizes what it is. “His latest manuscript? You lucky dog, no one gets to read Cas’s first draft except for me, usually. You two must have had fun those two weeks, huh?” 

She throws a wink his way while she reads over a few random pages. Dean’s sure she means it as teasing, but it’s too close to the truth for comfort. He clears his throat.

“Me and Cas will be in the living room when you decide to finish the project you started,” he says, jerking his way towards the general direction of the Christmas tree. 

Grabbing two beers from his fridge, he finds Cas pressed against the corner of his living room, as far away from the tree as he can physically be without disintegrating into the wall.

“It’s not going to bite you, you know,” Dean says, walking over.

Castiel jumps a little. Dean can’t imagine what it must be like to leave the house after spending close to three years in there.

“Thank you,” Cas mumbles, accepting the beer. His eyes travel back to the tree. “I was prepared for… festivities—I was planning on spending the holidays with my brother after all— but thinking about it and seeing it is completely different.”

Dean takes a sip from his own beer, stealing a glance at the Christmas tree. “Sorry, I don’t think Charlie will let us hide it.”

Cas shakes his head. “It’s okay. I can handle this. Baby steps, right?”

“Right,” Dean parrots back, heart skipping a beat at the shy smile Cas is giving him.

His whole body is tingling, butterflies escaping from his stomach to fill his lungs, his chest, his blood, everything. Why is Cas here?

There’s a clutter from the kitchen, and Charlie reappears shrugging her coat on. Gilda is hot on her heels, a pie in her gloved hands. 

“What are you guys doing?” Dean asks.

“ _ We _ ’re going over to Ellen and Bobby’s,” Charlie says, pulling her beanie over her red hair.

“Wait, you’re leaving?” Dean gives Cas his beer to hold onto, and follows Charlie to the front door. “Charlie, where are you going?”

“Look, you’re going to thank me for this,” she says, crushing him into a hug. She climbs to her toes, and presses her mouth right next to Dean’s ear to whisper, “Did you read the dedication page, idiot?”

“What dedication page?” Dean hisses back, not sure why they’re whispering, and she slaps him against the forearm. 

“Read the dedication page,” she instructs raising her eyebrows at him. 

“Here,” Gilda says, very helpfully passing over the manuscript Dean had left with them just moments ago. “You can come join us at Bobby’s once you’re done.”

“Or you know, hopefully not at all,” Charlie adds, giving him a thumbs up for no apparent reason. “I’ll see you later.”

“Good luck,” Gilda says with a quick smile, and then they’re out the door. And they take one of his pies with them.

Dean’s more than a little confused. He looks at the book in his hands, frowning.

_ Look at the dedication page. _

Fingers shaking, Dean opens the page with the title, and the next one has only one sentence printed high up on the edge of it.

_ To Dean, for being my own Christmas miracle. _

Something inside him clenches, and then it lets go. 

Cas looks up at him confused when he returns to the living room, both hands occupied with their beers. His eyes fall to the manuscript Dean’s holding, and he straightens up, like a cord has gone through his spine and pulled it up.

Dean holds the book up higher. “Did you mean it?”

Cas nods, not needing any clarification. He licks his lips, eyes falling to the floor like he can’t keep looking at Dean. “I spent too long inside that house on my own, waiting for… for nothing really. I was just letting time pass me by, pretending not to exist when existing was too painful,” his hold on the bottles becomes white-knuckled, and he has to take a breath and steel himself before he meets Dean’s gaze again. “And then you came along, and you forced me to come out of my shell and spend time with you.”

There’s a warmth spreading through Dean’s body, a soft glow just behind his ribs.

“And I found that I don’t mind holi—Christmas, I don’t mind Christmas as much when I’m with you,” Cas adds, visibly forcing himself to say the word  _ Christmas. _ Dean wonders if maybe he’d prepared this little speech beforehand. “I know I’m just a grumpy recluse on the best of days, but Dean, I feel alive when I’m with you, and you should know that what happened between us, I don’t regret it. I don’t regret it at all.”

Dean’s breath catches at his throat, but there’s no stopping the stream of words coming out of Cas’s mouth.

“And I’m sorry that I needed some time to figure this out. I’m sorry I let you go. I’m sorry you had to wait this long to hear all this. The person I am when I’m with you, I like that guy, and I want to hold onto that, onto you. And if you let me, I promise not to make the same mistake again.”

A pause filled with static. 

Dean must be dreaming.  He takes a step forward, throwing the book on the chair closest to him. He can’t take his eyes away from Castiel.

“Dean, will you…” Cas trails off, instinctively curling in on himself as Dean steps into his space, presses closer. Cas lifts the beers higher, the only thing keeping their chests from touching.

“Don’t,” Dean says, snatching the beers out of his hands and placing them on the closest empty surface he could find. It might be the floor, he’s not really paying attention, he doesn’t care. All he cares about is the way Cas’s eyes flit between his own, nervous and unsure. 

Dean raises his hands, cups Cas’s face.

“Dean,” Cas tries again.

“Shut up,” Dean says, practically growls, and then he closes the distance between them and kisses him.

Cas gasps, but then he has his hands around Dean, his lips stretching into a smile, and he’s kissing Dean back. Slowly and tentatively, in no hurry to deepen it.

Dean is in no hurry either. They have all the time in the world. He just has to hold on to Cas tighter. 

It could be an eternity later, or even a couple of minutes, Dean’s not sure, but when they finally break away it’s only so Cas can rest his forehead against Dean’s and chuckle.

“That went better than I expected,” he confesses, eyes closed and content.

“You were worried?” Dean asks, basking in the satisfied bliss that spreads through him.

“A little. Is this why Charlie left?”

“She figured you out faster than I did,” Dean says, pulling back enough to look Cas in the eye. There’s a gummy smile on his face, and it’s the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen. He’s not sure if he is Cas’s Christmas miracle, but there must be at least a hint of magic that pushed them together and then brought Cas here tonight.  Maybe he should start believing in Santa Claus again.

The thought makes him snort, and Cas tilts his head in confusion at him. 

“It’s just a stupid thought, nothing to worry about,” Dean reassures him, giving him a quick peck to the tip of the nose, and he’s still marvelling at how he’s allowed to that now.

They agree to head over to Bobby’s to have dinner with the others. Cas seems a little nervous, but knowing Charlie will be there, too, helps settle his nerves by the time they have the food packed up and are both heading downstairs. Cas took a cab to get to Dean’s house, so he follows Dean to the Impala without a second thought.  He looks right in the passenger seat, Dean notes, satisfied. And he touches the car like the work of art she is. He decides then and there that he’ll have to take him on a road trip one day, when he’ll feel better about leaving his house, but for now he’ll have to settle for the few minutes the drive to Bobby’s lasts.

No one looks surprised when Cas comes inside right behind Dean, the table already set for six people. They have dinner together, and between Charlie and Dean coaxing him, and Ellen’s motherly interrogation, Cas manages to have a full conversation with everyone. He looks a little terrified when Bobby mentions he hunts for a hobby and offers to show him his guns, but Dean knows the old man is only teasing. Mostly.

They all gather around the couch to watch the countdown, and cheer together at midnight.

Dean is the one to throw his arm around Cas to kiss him. 

“Happy New Year, Cas.”

“Happy New Year, Dean,” he answers, a faint blush tinting his cheeks.

Dean’s so in love with him he thinks he might burst. 

Alas, his phone’s insistent ring drags him away from Cas.

“Happy New Year, Sammy,” he greets immediately, grinning so hard his cheeks are hurting. 

His brother has the exact same expression on his face, and Dean can tell immediately that his proposal was a success. “Happy New Year, Dean.”

“Happy New Year, Dean,” Eileen echoes, shoving her face into the frame, traces of mascara down her cheeks. She lifts up her hand, wiggling her fingers, and surely, a brand new diamond ring glints there.

“Congratulations,” Dean says. “Man, I’m so happy for you two.”

“Are you at Bobby’s?” Sam asks, squinting. “I thought you were celebrating at your apartment this year.”

“Yeah, well things didn’t go as planned,” Dean says, glancing up towards where Charlie and Gilda have cornered Cas to toast with them. “But it was a good thing, I promise,” he adds quickly to stop the frown forming between Sam’s brows.

“A good thing how?” Sam asks, and Eileen glances quickly at his lips before turning her attention back to Dean to catch his answer.

Dean rubs the back of his neck. Cas is laughing at some impersonation Charlie is making, probably of her boss, Dean thinks, and everything inside him lights up brighter than the fairy lights on Ellen’s Christmas tree.

“I’ll tell you when you come visit,” Dean promises. “Still coming down here, right?”

“In two days,” Eileen says. “We have to celebrate.”

“Good, because I have someone I want you to meet.”

Cas meets his eye from across the room, and Dean knows, instinctively, that this is only the beginning of many more holidays they are going to spend together.  It took a miracle to get them together, but it’ll take so much more to make Dean let him go.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! I had a lot of fun writing this story, and I hope you enjoyed reading it. You can find the masterpost [here ](https://kitmistry.tumblr.com/post/190034614398/looking-for-a-miracle-author-kitmistry-written) on tumblr. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and Happy New Year!


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